of  HAPPINESS 

KATE  LANGLEY  BOSHER 


MEl 


BOOKS  BY 
KATE  LANGLEY  BOSHER 

THE  HOUSE  OP  HAPPINESS.     Post  8vo     .      net  $1.25 

MARY  CAKY.     Post  8vo net     1.00 

Miss  GIBBIE  GAULT.     Post  8vo      ...      net     1.20 
THE  MAN  IN  LONELY  LAND.     Ill'd.     Post  8vo 

net     1.00 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


[See  page  253 
NOT    TO-DAY— NOT     FOR     MANY     DAYS.     PERHAPS" 


THE   HOUSE 
OF    HAPPINESS 


BY 

KATE  LANGLEY  BOSHER 


AUTHOR  OF 

:MARY  GARY"  ETC. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 

MCMXIII 


WEL  SXR  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


COPYRIGHT.    1913.    BY   HARPER   ft    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   OCTOBER.    1813 


H-N 


TO    THE     LOVED     MEMORY    OF 
MY    FATHER   AND   MY   MOTHER 

CHARLES  H.  AND  PORTIA  V.  LANGLEY 


2125957 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  CRICKET 7 

II.  RIVES  COLBURN 15 

III.  DINNER 25 

IV.  THE  SYSTEM 39 

V.  A  NIGHT  VISIT 51 

VI.  A  FISHING  PARTY 68 

VII.  A  DOUBLE  PLUNGE       83 

VIII.  LETTERS; 100 

IX.  A  BIT  OF  NEWS 108 

X.  A  WALK  AND  A  TALK 118 

XI.  LUMPS  AND  BUMPS 130 

XII.  ADMISSION  AND  ADVICE 142 

XIII.  PIPING  FOREST 149 

XIV.  NEW  QUARTERS 158 

XV.  A  TWILIGHT  TALK 167 

XVI.  SUPPER-TIME 175 

XVII.  CONFESSIONS 184 

XVIII.  WORRIES  AND  WORRYING 194 

XIX.  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 206 

XX.  THE  STORY  OF  DIANE 213 

XXL     THE  STORY  CONTINUED 223 

XXII.  THE  ARRIVAL 230 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 


THE  WHITE  ROSE 241 

CONFESSION 249 

THE  VISIT  HOME       256 

BACK  AGAIN 264 

XXVII.  VICTORY 271 

XXVIII.  CONSPIRATORS 280 

XXIX.  THE  MESSAGE 289 

XXX.  THE  WEDDING  GIFT 300 


THE    HOUSE   OF   HAPPINESS 


THE 
HOUSE  OF    HAPPINESS 


I 

CRICKET 

(LEASE,  mister,  would  you  mind  telling 

1      me  what  time  it  is?" 

The  man  walking  along  the  road  lifted  his 
head.  No  one  was  in  front  of  him.  He  turned 
slowly.  No  one  was  behind.  On  the  left  of 
the  road  the  land  sloped  abruptly  to  a  narrow, 
lazy  little  stream;  on  the  right  it  rose  in  hills  of 
varying  heights,  but  neither  on  the  hills  nor  in 
the  valley,  nor  on  the  winding  way,  was  human 
being  to  be  seen. 

"Here  I  am,  mister."  A  laugh  came  back 
in  joyous  echo.  ' '  'Tain't  five  yet,  is  it  ?" 

Half-way  up  the  hill,  and  half  hidden  among 
its  trees,  on  the  top  rail  of  a  worm  fence  the 
boy  was  sitting;  at  his  feet  a  willow  basket, 

7 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

round  and  hand-woven,  on  his  head  a  hat  of 
straw  with  crown  half  out  and  brim  in  ragged 
edges,  and  at  his  side  a  fishing-rod.  Hardly 
knowing  why,  the  man  climbed  the  hill. 

"I  don't  know  the  time,"  he  said.  "It  takes 
so  long  to  pass  I  put  my  watch  away.  I  don't 
think  it's  five." 

Again  the  boy  laughed;  and,  dropping  the 
bunch  of  leaves  he  was  holding,  leaves  of  green 
and  gold  and  russet  red,  he  took  off  his  hat 
and  held  it  in  his  hands. 

"Reckon  you  just  come."  The  stranger  was 
surveyed  with  frank  and  friendly  eyes.  ' '  You're 
one  of  'em,  ain't  you?" 

"One  what?" 

"Tubers.  You  don't  look  like  a  Rester. 
Since  they  built  the  new  house  up  there" — 
a  hand  was  waved  indefinitely  into  space — 
"they  have  more  Resters  than  Tubers.  Miss 
Taska  is  a  Tuber.  Do  you  know  Miss  Taska?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  don't 
know  anybody." 

The  boy  moved  up  and  made  room  on  the 
fence.  ' '  Won't  you  sit  down ?  I'm  sitting  here 
so  I  can  see  Mis'  Roberts's  back  yard  and  front 
yard  at  the  same  time.  My  name's  Josephus 
Hammill,  but  they  call  me  Cricket.  Nice  day, 
ain't  it?" 

8 


CRICKET 

For  a  moment  the  man  hesitated,  then  got 
up  on  the  fence.  Why  not?  There  was  noth- 
ing to  do  with  time  but  kill  it,  and  if  he  went 
back  to  the  sanitarium —  He  turned  to  the 
boy  at  his  side.  "Do  you  live  around  here?" 

"Over  there."  A  long  brown  finger  was 
pointed  across  the  stream  toward  a  tree-encir- 
cled hollow.  "I  live  with  Mis'  Lemmon.  She 
took  me  when  my  aunt  died.  I  used  to  live 
with  my  grandmother,  but  she  died,  too. 
Everybody  I  ever  belonged  to  died.  My 
mother  and  father  died  because  they  got 
drownded.  Mis'  Lemmon  says  it  was  the  will 
of  God,  but  'twarn't.  Jim  Gibson  was  asleep 
when  they  passed  by  and  didn't  tell  'em  he 
hadn't  fixed  the  bridge  over  Falling  Creek, 
which  was  all  swelled  up  on  account  of  the 
rain,  and  they  drove  on,  not  knowing  it  was 
bad,  and  they  went  through,  horse  and  buggy 
and  all.  The  horse  was  theirs,  but  the  buggy 
was  borrowed.  I  ain't  blood  kin  to  anybody 
now.  What's  your  name,  mister?" 

"Rives  Colburn." 

' '  Look  like  you  live  in  New  York.     Do  you  ?" 

"No.     I  live  in  the  South." 

The  boy  turned  toward  him.  "Miss  Taska 
lives  in  the  South.  I  reckon  you're  stopping 
up  at  Baywood.  How  long  you  been  there?" 

9 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"Five  days." 

"Like  it?" 

"I  do  not.     I  most  certainly  do  not." 

"Whole  lot  of  things  folks  have  to  do  what 
they  don't  like.  There's  me  and  milking. 
How  long  you're  going  to  stay?" 

"God  knows!" 

The  bitterness  in  the  man's  voice  silenced  the 
child,  and  he  looked  away.  "Reckon  if  He 
knows  that's  enough  to  know,"  he  said,  present- 
ly, "and  you  can  fish,  can't  you?  They  won't 
let  the  Resters  fish  when  they  first  come,  but 
the  Tubers  who  are  getting  well  can.  Miss 
Taska  and  I  go  every  Saturday  Mis'  Lemmon 
lets  me  off.  She  brings  the  lunch.  Feed  fine 
up  there,  don't  they?" 

With  narrowed  eyes  the  man  was  looking  at 
the  handsome  buildings  on  top  of  a  hill  some 
distance  off,  and  swift  loathing  for  what  they 
represented  surged  over  him;  then  he  laughed, 
a  hard  laugh  that  came  back  in  a  harsh  echo. 

"It  may  be  fine,"  he  said;  "I've  never  no- 
ticed. Rules  and  red-tape  are  not  good  appe- 
tizers, and  at  a  place  of  that  kind" — he  nodded 
toward  the  Baywood  Sanitarium — "they're  the 
order  of  both  day  and  night.  A  man  who  goes 
there  deserves  what  he  gets.  I'm  getting  my 
share  all  right." 

10 


CRICKET 

"If  you  don't  like  it  what  'd  you  come  for? 
Didn't  make  you,  did  they?" 

"I  needed  repairing."  The  man  took  off  his 
glasses,  wiped  them,  and  put  them  back.  "It 
was  a  case  of  get  away  or  get  on  the  junk  pile." 

Again  the  stranger  was  surveyed.  "Junk 
ain't  made  of  men  like  you."  The  boy's  voice 
was  decisive.  "I  didn't  think  you  were  a 
Rester.  You  don't  look  limp  enough.  Is  it 
your  lungs  or  your  legs  or  what  that's  got  the 
little  bugs  in  'em?" 

In  spite  of  himself  the  man  smiled.  ' '  Lungs, ' ' 
he  said.  "So  far  they  are  not  greatly  damaged. 
I'm  here  to  head  off  trouble,  to  let  go,  do  nothing, 
and  all  the  other  nonsense.  I'm  merely  to 
think  of  the  thing  most  calculated  to  set  me 
crazy — myself. ' ' 

Leaning  forward,  the  child  tied  the  string  of 
his  well-worn  shoe.  "I  had  to  stop  thinking 
about  myself  when  I  wasn't  but  nine,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  remember  when  my  mother  and 
father  got  drownded,  but  I  was  seven  when  my 
grandmother  died,  and  eight  when  my  aunt 
died,  and  I  had  to  whistle  so  much  to  keep 
from  letting  anybody  know  how  I  felt  inside 
that  my  mouth  got  to  look  like  I  lived  on 
persimmons.  You  can't  whistle  and  whine  at 
the  same  time,  can  you?  And  when  Mis' 
ii 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

Lemmon  took  me  I  knew  she  wouldn't  want  a 
whiner,  so  whistling  had  to  be  my  job.  Hello ! 
There's  somebody  going  in  Mis'  Roberts's  front 
yard." 

Untwisting  his  feet  from  the  lower  rail,  the 
boy  got  up,  and,  balancing  himself  on  the  top 
of  the  fence,  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands  and 
looked  toward  a  house  some  half  a  mile  away. 

"There're  two  carriages."  His  voice  was 
excited.  "And  folks  are  getting  out  of  both. 
One  of  the  ladies  has  got  a  big  white  something 
in  her  hands.  I  bet  it's  a  cake.  Bettie  Rob- 
erts is  going  to  have  a  party  to-night.  That's 
why  I've  been  sitting  here  so  I  could  see  for 
Teenie.  Teenie's  a  Tuber.  Leg  one.  She 
can't  walk  a  step,  and  I  have  to  see  something 
to  tell  her  every  day,  and  some  days  there  ain't 
a  thing  to  see.  Bettie  Roberts  is  engaged  to  be 
married,  and  she's  giving  a  party  so  everybody 
can  know  it."  He  craned  his  neck  in  eager 
anxiety  to  miss  no  detail  of  the  far-away  scene. 
"Mis'  Lemmon  says  when  she  was  a  girl  they 
didn't  use  to  tell,  but  she  don't  blame  Bettie 
for  telling.  She's  thirty,  and  it's  the  onliest 
chance  she's  ever  had.  I'll  have  to  go  now. 
I  reckon  it's  five,  and  Teenie  will  be  waiting." 

Jumping  down  from  the  top  rail,  the  child 
stood  a  moment,  hat  in  hand,  in  front  of  the 

12 


CRICKET 

man  still  sitting  on  the  fence,  and  into  the 
freckled,  eager  face  the  color  crept  slowly. 

"I'm  sorry  you  had  to  come  if  you  didn't 
want  to,"  he  said.  "Ever  try  whistling  when 
— when  if  you  were  a  girl  you  wouldn't,  you'd — 
On  the  end  of  his  finger  the  torn  hat  was 
twirled  swiftly.  "When  I  used  to  feel  that 
way  I'd  say,  'Cricket,  you  got  that  to  be 
thankful  for,  anyway,  you  ain't  a  girl,'  and  then 
I'd  go  off  in  the  woods  by  myself  and  let  all  the 
swear  things  inside  come  out.  Damn  easy  to 
smile  when  you  feel  good,  ain't  it?  and  damn 
hard  when  you  don't.  Mis'  Lemmon  says  I 
must  have  been  born  with  the  swearing  disease. 
My  father  was  a  swearer.  But  a  fellow's  got 
to  do  something,  ain't  he,  when  he  hasn't 
any  blood  kin  and  nobody  cares  much,  and  he 
wants  to  do  the  things  he  can't,  and  has  to  do  a 
lot  he  despises?  There's  milking.  I  hate  it 
worse  'n  poison,  and  do  it  regular  twice  a  day. 
Have  to.  That's  why  I  took  to  whistling. 
Teenie  didn't  like  my  language,  and  something 
had  to  come  out.  Do  much  fishing  where  you 
come  from?" 

"Haven't  seen  a  live  fish  in  ten  years." 
Out  of  his  pocket  the  man  took  a  cigar,  looked 
at  it  and  rolled  it  between  the  palms  of  his 
hands.  "The  one  thing  up  here  I  care  very 

13 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

much  to  do  is  to  smoke.  I'm  not  allowed  to 
smoke.  I  sympathize  with  your  desire  to 
swear,  Cricket.  I  can  do  it  myself  on  occa- 
sion, and  of  late  the  occasion  has  been  con- 
tinual. Where  do  you  fish  around  here?" 

"Lots  of  places.  Brimming  Creek  is  the 
best  place,  but  I  know  all  the  places  and  all 
the  paths,  big  ones  and  little  ones.  I'll  show 
'em  to  you  when  Mis'  Lemmon  don't  need  me 
after  school,  if  there's  ever  a  day  she  don't  need 
me.  Maybe  Miss  Taska  won't  mind  if  you  go 
fishing  with  us  some  Saturday.  I'll  ask  her. 
Good-by,  mister." 

With  a  nod  the  boy  started  down  the  hill,  on 
his  arm  the  round  willow  basket,  on  his  shoulder 
the  long  reed  which  served  for  rod,  and  on  the 
back  of  his  head  the  torn  and  twisted  hat.  The 
blue  jean  overalls,  hitched  up  to  his  shoulders, 
gleamed  in  the  sunlight,  and  as  he  reached  the 
road  he  turned  and  again  waved  his  hand. 

"Good-by!" 

Through  the  cool,  crisp  air  the  echo  came 
back  clearly.  "And  say,  mister,  why  don't  you 
tell  that  doctor  to  go  to  hell — the  one  who's  set 
you  thinking  just  about  yourself?" 


II 

RIVES   COLBURN 

FOR  some  time  after  a  turn  in  the  road  hid 
the  boy  from  sight,  the  clear  notes  of  his 
whistle  came  back  to  the  man  sitting  on  the 
fence;  then,  as  silence  slowly  fell,  he  got  down 
and  began  his  walk  back  to  the  buildings  on 
the  hill  some  distance  off.  In  the  air  was 
the  sting  of  late  October;  in  the  sky  splotches 
of  pale  pink  and  purple  softened  the  glow  of 
the  sun,  beginning  to  sink  beyond  the  hori- 
zon, while  on  the  hills  and  in  the  little  valley, 
with  its  winding  stream,  the  green  and  gold 
and  red  and  brown  of  many  trees  made 
masses  of  color  against  the  graying  grass  and 
shrubs  and  bits  of  earth  overturned  for  winter's 
work.  In  front  a  blackbird  flitted  from  tree 
to  tree,  head  on  the  side,  and  noting  cautiously 
the  bark  of  a  dog  some  distance  off;  but  on  the 
road,  which  wound  in  crescent  fashion  from  one 
end  of  the  little  village  to  the  other,  there  was 
no  sign  of  life,  and,  putting  his  hands  in  his 

15 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

pockets,  the  man  walked  on  and  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  ground.  For  some  distance  his  head  was 
unlifted,  then  as  he  approached  a  plot  of  land 
inclosed  with  an  iron  railing  he  looked  up  and 
after  half  a  minute's  hesitation  stopped. 

"Not  many  hamlets  of  three  hundred  people 
even  in  New  England  have  two  graveyards,"  he 
said,  under  his  breath,  and  passing  through  the 
little  gate  went  into  the  treeless  inclosure  and 
walked  in  and  out  among  its  mounds  with 
their  plain  headstones;  and  presently  he  took 
from  his  pocket  note-book  and  pencil  and  wrote 
down  several  of  the  quaint  inscriptions. 

For  the  one  who 

"Poorly  lived  and  poorly  died, 
Was  poorly  buried  and  nobody  cried," 

he  felt  sympathy,  but  not  in  the  same  degree 
that  he  felt  it  for  the  woman  whose 

"  Last  words  were: 

"  I  hope  in  Mansions  of  the  Skies 
I'll  never  have  to  Economize." 

On  a  somewhat  imposing  stone  in  the  center 
of  the  little  plot  was  an  injunction  to 

"Remember,  friend,  as  you  pass  by, 
That  you  some  day  must  also  die, 
And  straight  to  Heaven  or  Hell  must  go, 
As  gone  I  have,  which  well  you  know." 
16 


RIVES    COLBURN 

In  a  far-off  corner  his  foot  caught  in  the 
tangled  vines  of  a  sunken  mound  whose  broken 
stone  was  laid  upon  it,  and  as  he  caught  him- 
self the  words  upon  the  moulded  marble  held 
him  by  their  familiarity,  and  the  unmarked 
grave  beside  it  told  the  ended  story: 

"She  lived  unknown  and  few  could  tell 

When  Mary  ceased  to  be. 
But  now  she's  dead,  and  oh — 
The  difference  to  me!" 

With  a  slight  shiver  as  if  cold  he  closed  the 
little  gate  behind  him  and  walked  on,  and  half 
aloud  repeated  the  names  of  Eldad  Bagg  and 
Eunice  Foot,  of  Deborah  Buck  and  Comfort 
Barnes,  of  Usube  Hubbill  and  Mary  Musick — 
names  he  had  read  in  the  rival  graveyard  of  the 
Puritan  forefathers.  Adjoining  this  one  was  a 
tiny  church,  on  the  toy  steeple  of  which  a  gilded 
cross  gleamed  in  the  fading  sunlight,  and  he 
remembered  being  told  by  the  man  he  had  met 
in  the  road  a  couple  of  days  ago  that  he  was  its 
rector  and  would  be  glad  to  see  him  at  the  ser- 
vice on  the  second  and  fourth  Sundays  in  the 
month.  The  man  had  a  keen,  kind  face,  clean- 
shaven and  of  an  ivory  whiteness,  and  he  had 
wondered  for  the  moment  why  he  was  there. 
For  his  health,  possibly.  As  dead  as  its  grave- 

17 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

yards,  Baywood  could  hardly  be  a  place  of 
residence  from  choice.  Its  climate  was  ad- 
mirable, its  scenery  pastoral  and  peaceful,  but 
climate  and  scenery,  like  bread  alone,  were  not 
enough  for  man  to  live  on,  and  it  was  unthink- 
able that  a  sane  person  could  select  so  resource- 
less  a  place  in  which  to  spend  his  life  unless 
compelled  by  unescapable  necessity.  He  hated 
it,  hated  its  stillness  and  serenity,  its  calm  and 
content.  Why  had  he  come  ?  If  he  had  to  put 
aside  for  the  present  all  that  made  life  endurable 
or  justifiable,  why  had  he  not  gone  to  a  place 
nearer  a  city  where  he  could  occasionally  feel 
the  throb  and  stir  and  pulse  of  life?  Why — 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  What  was  the  use 
of  going  over  it  again  ?  To  whistle,  perhaps,  was 
wiser  than  to  swear,  but  swearing  would  be  his 
preference. 

Half-way  up  the  hill  he  stopped  for  breath. 
The  ascent  was  slight  and  the  path  winding,  but 
his  heart  was  beating  with  uncomfortable  rapid- 
ity, and  with  a  frown  he  sat  down  on  a  rock. 
Leaning  forward,  he  clasped  his  hands  loosely, 
and  with  his  foot  tapped  the  ground  with  rest- 
less impatience.  If  he  could  only  accept  the 
thing  properly !  Hitherto  when  things  got  in  his 
way  he  had  gotten  them  out,  but  if  for  the 
present  this  particular  thing  could  not  be  re- 

18 


RIVES    COLBURN 

moved  it  might  as  well  be  accepted,  and  protest 
but  added  childishness  to  the  situation  in  which 
he  found  himself. 

For  some  minutes  the  stillness  of  the  air  was 
unbroken  by  even  the  chirp  of  a  bird  or  the 
rustle  of  wind-stirred  leaves,  and  presently  he 
sat  up,  then  leaned  back  against  the  rock  behind 
the  one  on  which  he  was  sitting,  and  with 
narrowed  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  quiet  little 
valley.  Certain  remembrances  of  the  past 
came  before  him,  faded  slowly,  and  were  fol- 
lowed by  others,  some  vague  and  indefinite, 
others  clear  and  distinct;  and  for  some  mo- 
ments his  present  surroundings  were  forgotten 
in  the  thought  of  other  things. 

Of  his  parents'  five  children  he  alone  had 
lived,  and  his  earliest  memory  was  of  his 
mother's  passionate  care  of  him.  From  the 
time  of  his  father's  death,  when  he  was  but 
twelve,  until  his  college  days  were  over  the 
practical  side  of  life  was  about  all  he  knew  of  it, 
but  ever  in  his  heart  was  the  secret  covenant 
made  in  his  boyhood  that  he  would  some  day  be 
rich  and  give  his  mother  that  to  which  she  was 
entitled.  For  himself  he  wanted  little,  but  with 
something  of  passion  he  wanted  money  for  his 
mother.  Money  meant  position  and  power,  and 
ease  and  luxury,  and  travel  and  books,  and 

19 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

beautiful  clothes  and  generous  giving;  meant 
the  absence  of  what  for  many  years  she  had 
endured  with  fine  and  unembittered  patience 
and  with  courage  gay  and  sweet;  and  if  by 
singleness  of  purpose  and  intelligent  effort  they 
could  be  won  they  should  be  won,  he  had 
said  to  himself  a  thousand,  ten  thousand  times, 
perhaps. 

He  had  been  fortunate ;  he  had  made  money, 
but  it  was  not  chance  that  had  brought  him  a 
partnership  in  the  largest  banking  and  broker- 
age firm  in  his  city.  He  had  made  ready  for 
good-fortune  when  good-fortune  was  ready  for 
him,  and  what  some  called  luck  had  been  won 
by  work,  by  steady,  ceaseless,  tireless  work. 

Overhead  a  crow  began  to  caw,  and,  getting 
up,  Colburn  fastened  his  coat  shiveringly. 
Nearly  six  years  had  passed  since  his  mother's 
death,  but  even  yet  dull  pain  had  not  entirely 
driven  back  its  cruel  shock,  and  there  were 
still  times  when  he  had  to  keep  himself  busy 
both  day  and  night  to  force  away  the  memories 
of  his  early  struggles  to  get  for  her  what  had 
come  too  late.  After  her  death  the  house  built 
for  her,  but  never  occupied,  was  sold,  the  things 
she  had  bought  for  it  packed  and  stored,  and 
he  had  taken  rooms  at  his  club. 

Starting  this  time  more  slowly,  he  again  began 
20 


RIVES    COLBURN 

the  walk  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  as  he  walked 
his  thoughts  again  went  back  to  other  days. 
He  deserved,  perhaps,  what  had  come  to  him. 
It  had  pleased  him  to  forget  that  the  body  was 
a  piece  of  machinery,  and  to  work  it  as  he  had 
worked  his  was  bad  business,  and  of  a  sort  that 
would  not  have  been  allowed  in  any  other 
instrument  subject  to  the  depreciation  of  wear 
and  tear.  It  was  natural  he  should  have  for- 
gotten. Before  him  had  been  opportunities 
which  demanded  immediate  and  continuous  at- 
tention, and  for  some  time  past  his  work  was  all 
he  had  to  give  zest  to  life.  He  was  not  yet  rich 
in  the  sense  he  intended  to  be,  or  had  intended 
to  be,  and  to  be  occupied  was  a  necessity  with  a 
man  of  his  temperament.  At  the  office  they 
called  him  Dynamo.  Under  his  breath  the 
word  was  repeated  with  ironic  emphasis,  and, 
stopping,  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  cigar  and 
lighted  it. 

"Allowed  or  not  allowed,  I'm  going  to  smoke," 
he  said.  "I'm  as  cold  as  an  iced  cucumber, 
and  a  drink  is  as  far  away  as  that  little  star  over 
there.  Had  I  been  a  drinking  person  I'd  have 
left  the  day  I  got  here." 

Eyes  on  the  little  star,  his  walk  was  con- 
tinued. Society  in  its  silly  sense  he  frankly 
hated,  and  yet  he  was  engaged  to  a  woman  to 

3  21 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

whom  it  was  the  breath  of  life.  Frequently 
of  late  he  had  wondered  how  it  happened  he  was 
engaged  to  her.  Owing  to  his  sudden  attack 
of  pneumonia,  with  its  days  of  hovering  between 
life  and  death,  its  weeks  of  discouraging  conva- 
lescence, and  the  doctor's  verdict  concerning  the 
condition  of  his  lungs,  the  engagement  had  not 
been  announced,  and  for  the  present  would  not 
be.  He  had  told  Isabel  frankly  all  that  the 
doctor  had  told  him,  and  had  offered  to  release 
her,  but  she  had  refused  to  be  released.  She 
was  trying  to  do  the  right  thing.  She  wrote 
regularly,  but  letters  were  a  strain  on  Isabel, 
and  so  perfunctory  had  they  become  during  his 
first  absence  from  home  that  he  was  tempted 
to  tell  her  before  leaving  for  Baywood  not  to 
bother  to  write  save  when  she  really  wanted  to ; 
but  he  had  not  told  her.  It  was  not  an  easy 
thing  to  tell. 

A  woman  as  beautiful  as  Isabel  McLean 
should  not  be  expected  to  be  a  clever  writer; 
no  one  being  got  all  the  gifts,  and  he  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  her  for  writing  at  all.  In  dress  she 
was  an  artist;  but  art  interested  her  about  as 
much  as  welfare  work,  of  which  the  papers 
were  so  constantly  full.  As  the  mistress  of  a 
handsome  home  she  would  find  the  part  for 
which  she  was  fitted,  but —  Well,  he  wanted  a 

22 


RIVES    COLBURN 

home,  and  Isabel  was  good  to  stand  by  him  dur- 
ing the  process  of  getting  well.  She  was  dis- 
appointed at  the  delayed  marriage,  but  mar- 
riage was  out  of  the  question  for  some  time  yet. 
He  should  have  been  disappointed,  also,  but 
with  his  sickness  had  come  a  curious  apathy  to 
all  things  personal,  and  rebellion  was  chiefly 
that  he  must  be  laid  aside  and  do  nothing  when 
he  was  most  needed  in  the  enlarging  interests 
of  the  business,  wherein  new  enterprises  were 
being  undertaken  and  new  responsibilities  as- 
sumed. The  comedy  of  the  thing  was  little 
less  obvious  than  the  tragedy.  He  had  accom- 
plished his  purpose,  and,  like  a  grinning  gargoyle, 
it  was  holding  out  its  impotency  to  give  mean- 
ing and  sweetness  to  that  strange  and  uncer- 
tain thing  called  life. 

With  a  swift  movement  of  his  hand  he  threw 
his  cigar  away.  He  must  have  gotten  hold  of 
one  that  was  given  him.  Taking  out  another, 
he  started  to  light  it,  then  put  it  back  in  his 
pocket  and  took  out  a  note-book  instead.  To- 
morrow at  eleven  o'clock  was  the  monthly 
meeting  in  New  York  of  the  board  of  directors 
of  the  Mercantile  Trust  Company. 

For  some  months  he  had  been  a  member  of 
the  board,  and  he  had  intended  some  day  to  be 
its  president.  If  he  lived  he  would  yet  be  its 

23 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

president.  He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  and, 
putting  the  book  back  in  his  pocket,  passed 
between  the  stone  columns  forming  the  en- 
trance to  the  sanitarium  grounds,  and  on  to  his 
cottage  some  distance  to  the  right. 


Ill 

DINNER 

AT  dinner  Colburn  wondered  which  one  she 
was.  The  room  was  gay  and  bright  with 
lights  and  flowers,  and  few  seats  at  the  small 
and  well-arranged  tables  were  unoccupied,  but 
none  of  the  women  suggested  a  possibility  of 
being  Cricket's  fishing  friend.  Some  of  them 
were  young,  but  the  larger  number  had  appar- 
ently passed  the  period  in  which  fishing  might 
appeal  and  reached  the  one  wherein  their 
determined  occupation  was  the  consideration  of 
themselves;  and  indifferently  he  again  counted 
them,  and  then  counted  the  men. 

Baywood  was  supposedly  exclusive,  un- 
doubtedly costly,  and  admittedly  the  last  word 
in  the  scientific  treatment  of  incipient  or  threat- 
ened tuberculosis,  and  obviously  its  patrons 
were  all  of  a  kind.  "Thirty-nine  women  and 
thirty-two  men,"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
and  wondered  why  a  certain  division  of  hu- 
manity was  like  a  certain  class  of  hotels;  and 

25 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

why,  when  wealth  came  in,  individuality  so  often 
went  out.  Also  he  wondered —  He  turned  to 
the  man  on  his  right:  "I  beg  your  pardon; 
did  you  say  salt?" 

"I  did.  Said  it  three  times.  Are  you  hard 
of  hearing,  suh?" 

Colburn  again  looked  at  the  man.  Two  little 
eyes  in  a  wizened  little  face  were  peering  at 
him  indignantly.  "I  really  don't  know,"  he 
said.  "When  I'm  thinking  of  other  things  I 
may  be,  but — " 

"You  must  think  of  other  things  a  good  deal 
of  your  time,  suh."  The  near-sighted  eyes 
again  peered  at  Colburn.  "I  have  been  con- 
fined to  my  room  for  the  past  two  days,  but  I 
understand  you  have  not  made  a  remark  since 
you  were  put  at  this  table.  Have  you  objec- 
tions, suh,  to  sitting  with  us?" 

The  woman  opposite,  a  middle-aged  woman 
who  bit  her  lips  continuously,  stirred  uneasily; 
and,  hardly  knowing  why,  Colburn  smiled  at 
her.  "So  far  I  haven't  any  objections."  He 
put  the  salt  -  cellar  by  the  side  of  his  ques- 
tioner's plate.  "Some  people  are  nicer  than 
others  to  sit  with,  but  we  didn't  come  here  for 
enjoyment,  I  imagine.  If  I  haven't  spoken  to 
any  one — " 

"No  one  has  spoken  to  you?  That's  true." 
26 


DINNER 

A  short,  stout  fellow  of  barely  twenty  nodded 
across  the  table.  "I've  been  on  the  darnedest 
dyspepsia  jag  this  past  week  I've  had  since  I 
came  to  this  land  of  milk  and  water,  and  as  I 
couldn't  speak  decently  I  stayed  shut.  One 
spoonful  of  Scotch — 

' '  Kitchen  spoonful  ?"  The  interrupter's  voice 
was  satiric. 

"Kitchen  or  coffee,  it  would  have  stopped 
the  trouble  if  repeated  often  enough,  and  Dr. 
Browner  smiled  only  and  patted  me  on  the  back. 
I  tell  you  I  thought  things — said  them,  too." 

"With  the  door  shut  and  the  windows  down." 
This  time  the  voice  was  merely  scornful.  "We 
all  say  things,  and  when  the  Soft  Voice  comes 
along  we  drop  on  our  knees  and  kiss  the  hand 
that  keeps  from  us  the  reliever  of  life.  We're 
a  bunch — once  men  and  women,  now — " 

"Subjects  of  science.  My  name's  Harnish." 
The  boy  nodded  at  Colburn.  ' '  Got  hurt  in  foot- 
ball, had  typhoid,  and  T.  B.  the  result.  This 
is  Mrs.  Koler,  and  that  is  Miss  Warriner  next  to 
you.  The  growler  is  Mr.  Holman,  and  the 
gentleman  who  wanted  the  salt  is  Mr. 
McKenzie." 

"Of  South  Carolina,  suh."  Mr.  McKenzie 
extended  his  hand.  "Camden  County.  They 
tell  me  it  is  because  of  trouble  with  my  lungs 

27 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

that  I  am  here.  Mistake,  suh!  It's  my  brain, 
or  I'd  never  stay.  Your  name,  suh?" 

' '  Colburn. ' '  The  well-shaped,  shriveled  little 
hand  was  shaken.  ' '  Rives  Colburn  is  my  name. ' ' 

"Changed  your  table,  didn't  they?"  Young 
Harnish  pushed  his  plate  away.  "You've  only 
been  here  a  short  time,  I  believe?" 

Colburn,  who  had  taken  off  his  glasses,  wiped 
them  and  put  them  back.  "No,  I've  been  here 
a  long  time.  By  the  calendar  five  days,  but — 
I  changed  my  table  that  some  friends  might  be 
together."  He  pushed  his  coffee  cup  aside. 
"Is  it  true  that  people  stay  here  for  months?" 

"Months!"  Miss  Warriner  blushed  at  the 
emphasis  of  her  ejaculation,  and  her  helpless 
little  hands  came  together  with  faint  force. 
"I've  been  here  a  year,  and  yesterday  Dr. 
Browner  told  me  I'd  have  to  stay  another  if 
I  don't  eat  more.  I  can't  eat  any  more.  I  try 
and  try,  and  it  won't  go  down.  If  I  could  just 
go  home  for  a  little  while  I  think  I'd — 

"My  dear  young  lady,  when  flies  and  spiders 
get  in  the  same  net  the  flies  are  not  apt  to  get 
out."  Mr.  McKenzie's  little  sandy  goatee  was 
separated  into  strings  by  Mr.  McKenzie's  rest- 
less fingers.  "A  place  of  this  sort  must  be  kept 
up.  Are  you  an  incipient  or  a  threatened,  suh?" 

Colburn  laughed.  "Incipient  according  to 
28 


DINNER 

one  authority,  threatened  according  to  another, 
and  uncertain  according  to  a  third.  I  don't 
care  to  play  the  fly,  but  what  is  to  be  done  when 
you're  told  it's  get  out  and  do  nothing  indefi- 
nitely or  death  may  be,  the  result?" 

"Death  is  always  the  result."  This  time  it 
was  the  few  thin  hairs  on  the  back  of  Mr. 
McKenzie's  head  that  suffered  from  his  fingers. 
"I've  been  fencing  with  death  for  forty  years, 
suh,  and  it  is  going  to  beat  me  yet.  I  was  born 
too  late  to  fight  for  my  state,  and  eternity  has 
nothing  that  will  compensate  for  that,  and  I 
am  going  to  die  too  soon.  The  McKenzies  and 
their  Clan  will  never  be  finished  if  I  spend  my 
time  at  places  such  as  this.  And  where  else  can 
I  spend  it?  Where  can  I  go,  and  who  would 
take  me  in?  Hotels?  No.  Boarding-houses? 
No.  Relatives?  No.  I  have  no  near  ones,  and 
my  friends  are  right  in  not  wanting  me  around. 
I'm  a  danger,  a  nuisance.  I  have  no  home — " 

' '  Why  don't  you  have  one  ?' '  Colburn's  voice 
was  curt. 

"And  live  alone  except  for  servants?  Good 
God,  man,  have  you  ever  tried  it  ?  I  have ;  and 
if  there  are  to  be  paid  persons  to  look  after  me 
I  prefer  them  at  places  of  this  sort,  where  they 
are  taught  how  to  do  it.  No,  I'll  go  on  suck- 
ing thermometers  and  being  a  dump  for  experts 

29 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

and  specialists  as  long  as  there  is  anything  with 
which  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  being  experi- 
mented on.  And  when  there  isn't ' ' — he  crossed 
himself — "may  the  call  come!  After  a  while 
we  get  to  be  spineless,  mere  cravens  whose  first 
thought  in  the  morning  is  temperature  and 
whose  last  at  night  is  fear  of  to-morrow.  The 
young  ones  are  different.  They  are  hopeful 
and  brave  and  ignorant.  There's  Taska — 
He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  around  the  room. 
"Where  is  Taska?" 

"She  went  down  to  the  village  this  after- 
noon." Mrs.  Koler  looked  behind  her.  "I 
wish  she  wouldn't  stay  out  so  late.  It  makes 
me  so  uneasy.  She  knows  it's  against  the 
rules." 

"Rules!  Miss  Laird's  use  for  rules  is  to 
break  them."  Mr.  Holman  took  an  olive  and 
examined  it  with  half -closed  eyes.  "She  has 
no  business  staying  out  as  late  as  this.  It 
isn't  safe." 

"Why  not?  What's  going  to  hurt  her?" 
Mr.  McKenzie's  voice  was  short  and  snappy. 
"She  has  a  right  to  do  what  she  chooses,  and  it's 
more  than  people  have  to  criticize  her.  If— 

"We  are  not  criticizing."     Miss  Warriner's 
fingers  interlocked  in  nervous,  anxious  fashion. 
"But  she  oughtn't  to  worry  us  like  this.     I've 
30 


DINNER 

been  so  uneasy  about  her  I  couldn't  eat  a 
mouthful  of  dinner,  except  soup.  There  are 
some  gipsies  about  here,  and  she'd  like  to  know 
them — she  told  me  so.  I  believe  Dr.  Randall 
went  with  her,  but  he  came  back  an  hour  ago." 

"Here's  the  doctor  now."  Harnish's  hand 
went  out  and  held  the  arm  of  the  young  man 
who  was  passing.  "Hello,  Doctor.  Where's 
Miss  Laird  ?  Mr.  Mac's  getting  ready  to  have 
a  fit." 

"What  for?"  The  doctor's  voice  was  a 
drawl  with  an  upward  inflection.  "She'll  be 
in  presently.  I  left  her  in  the  village.  Had  to 
go  over  to  Fernleigh  to  see  Billy  Barrett.  He's 
had  the  fit." 

"Was  it  true  she  made  him  get  out  of  the 
runabout  on  top  of  Round  Hill  and  walk  all 
the  way  back  to  Fernleigh?"  Miss  Warriner's 
eyes  were  as  eager  in  inquiry  as  her  thin,  high 
voice.  "He  is  perfectly  furious,  I  under- 
stand. It's  two  miles  from  Round  Hill  to 
Fernleigh,  and  he's  not  accustomed  to  walking." 

"Pity  it  wasn't  four  miles!"  Harnish's  tone 
was  vindictive.  "He's  a  fat  old  muff!  No 
more  the  matter  with  him  than  with  my  horse, 
except  laziness.  King  Rester,  Cricket  calls  him. 
Mama's  pet  thinks  he  has  nerves,  and  she  sent 
him  here  to — " 

31 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"But  how  could  she  drive  off  and  leave  him! 
I  don't  see — " 

"He'd  tell  you  if  he  had  the  chance." 

Dr.  Randall  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
his  words  came  with  drawling  deliberation :  "I 
imagine  he  was  telling  her  something  she 
didn't  want  to  hear,  asking  her  something  he  had 
promised  not  to  ask  again.  She  dropped  a  hat- 
pin in  the  road,  and  when  he  got  down  to  get  it 
she  picked  up  the  reins  and  drove  off.  It  was 
treatment  he  needed  badly.  I  wish  he  could 
get  it  oftener.  What's  the  matter,  Miss  War- 
riner?  No  dinner  again  to-night?" 

"I  wasn't  hungry,  and  beef —  I  mean  I'm 
a  little  afraid  of  heavy  things  at  night.  They 
keep  me  awake." 

"Do  nothing  of  the  kind,  madam.  It's  the 
empty  stomach  that  keeps  awake.  I'll  have 
to  turn  you  over  to  Miss  Laird,"  and  with  a 
nod  he  was  gone  and  took  his  seat  across  the 
room. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  him  about  the  woman  Taska 
went  to  see."  Mrs.  Koler  sipped  her  coffee 
slowly.  "If  she's  dying  Taska  will  probably 
stay  with  her  all  night." 

"No,  she  won't!"  Mr.  McKenzie  knocked 
over  a  glass  of  water.  In  the  hollow  places 
under  his  high  cheek-bones  two  spots  of  color 
32 


DINNER 

came  suddenly,  and,  jumping  up,  he  pushed 
back  his  chair.  "I'm  going  after  her.  She 
sha'n't  be  subjected  to  such  scenes  as — as — 
I  mean,  of  course,  Taska  shall  do  as  she  chooses, 
only —  I  swear  she's  enough  to  set  a  man 
crazy,  and  you  are  right,  madam.  She  has  no — ' ' 

A  laugh,  gay,  warm,  sweet,  was  heard  behind 
him,  and  as  Colburn  turned  he  saw  a  girl  put 
her  hands  on  Mr.  McKenzie's  shoulders  and 
push  him  back  into  his  chair  and  for  a  moment 
hold  him  there. 

"Dear  Pepper  Pot!"  Her  voice  was  joyous. 
"Is  it  me  you're  mad  with?  And  I'm  so  hun- 
gry, so  awful,  awful  hungry!" 

"You  can't  have  any  dinner.  It's  been 
eaten  up,  and  your  grammar  doesn't  deserve 
any.  Just  feel  her  hands!  Cold  as  ice!  Get 
her  some  hot  tea,  Harnish.  And  you  sit  down — 
sit  right  down  here!"  And,  again  jumping  up, 
the  little  man  tried  to  push  the  girl  in  his  chair. 

' '  I  can't. ' '  She  brushed  a  strand  of  hair  from 
her  eyes.  "I'm  sorry  I'm  so  late.  But  I'm 
not  sorry  I  was  out.  It's  magnificent  out  to- 
night. I  could  have  walked  miles." 

"Is  the  woman  dead?"  Miss  Warriner,  who 
had  been  crumbling  a  piece  of  bread  into  pills  of 
varying  size,  dusted  her  fingers.  "Is  she  really 
dead  this  time?" 

33 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

' '  Of  course  she  isn't  dead !  She  had  a  sinking- 
spell  and  was  frightened.  It's  her  baby  she's 
afraid  of  leaving.  There  is  no  one  to  take  it." 

"I  suppose  you  told  her  you'd  take  it,  and 
left  her  asleep."  Mr.  Holman  took  another 
olive. 

"I  told  her  she  was  going  to  get  well  and  keep 
it  herself — and  I  left  her  asleep.  Is  the  dinner 
good  to-night?" 

"Please  sit  down  and  eat  it  at  our  table." 
Young  Harnish,  who,  with  the  other  men,  was 
standing,  pushed  his  plate  farther  back.  "I'll 
tell  Henry  to  bring  clean  things.  Everybody  is 
on  the  croak,  and  we  need  a  dose  of  cheer.  Oh, 
I  forgot.  This  is  Mr.  Colburn,  Miss  Laird. 
Mr.  Colburn  has  only  been  here  a  few  days." 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand.  "Cricket  told 
me  about  you.  The  first  week  is  awful,  isn't 
it?"  Her  eyes  laughed  into  his,  but  in  them 
was  understanding.  ' '  Cricket  came  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  with  me."  The  information  was  given 
to  Mr.  McKenzie.  "I  wasn't  alone,  so  don't 
be  fussy.  I'm  coming  in  the  library  after  I. see 
Jean."  And  with  a  nod  she  too  walked  off 
and  to  her  seat  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
room. 

Mr.  McKenzie  took  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  the  top  of  his  bald  and  oblong  head. 

34 


DINNER 

"She  is  twenty-five  years  old,  suh" — he  turned 
to  Colburn — "and  some  things  you  can't  beat 
into  her  head.  She  will  stay  out  after  dark 
if  she  feels  like  it,  and  though  she's  the 
finest—" 

Mr.  Holman  got  up.  "Sorry  for  you,  Mr. 
Colburn.  When  Mr.  McKenzie  gets  on  the 
subject  of  Miss  Laird  he  is  liable  to  lose  his 
head;  otherwise  he  is  all  right." 

"Which  is  more  than  you  are."  Mr.  Hol- 
man was  waved  away  as  smoke  is  waved. 
"Miss  Laird  is  from  Virginia,  suh.  Tide- 
water section.  You  talk  like  a  Virginian  your- 
self, suh." 

Colburn  smiled  slightly.  "I  ought  to.  I've 
spent  my  life  in  Virginia." 

"Born  there?" 

Colburn  nodded. 

"Then  you're  different  from  most  Virginians. 
I've  met  a  number,  and  rarely  one  who  didn't 
tell  me,  when  introduced,  who  his  father  or 
grandfather  or  great-grandfather  was.  It's 
natural." 

"Perhaps;  but  a  bad  habit,  nevertheless." 
Colburn  balanced  his  coffee  spoon  on  the  edge 
of  his  cup.  "Why  a  man  should  attach  any 
merit  to  himself  on  account  of  something  for 
which  he  isn't  responsible  is  beyond  my  par- 
35 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

ticular  kind  of  understanding.  Possibly  be- 
cause I  come  of  a  later  day  I  believe  a  man 
should  be  recognized  for  his  own  qualifications, 
and  not  for  his  ancestors'.  If  he  has  the  right 
ones  he  will  be." 

"And  doubtless  ought  to  be,  but  the  one 
thing  I  pray  Almighty  God  to  deliver  me  from 
is  new  people.  I  don't  like  new  people!" 
The  palms  of  Mr.  McKenzie's  hands  were 
pushed  into  the  air.  "They're  as  raw  as  new 
wine  and  as  arrogant  as  they're  raw.  I  prefer 
people  with  ancestors,  with  culture  and  charrn 
and  familiarity  with  the  fine  things  of  life,  the 
things  one  is  used  to.  A  man  may  be  made  in 
one  generation,  but  a  lady  never !  You're  a  son 
of  General  Colburn,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  I  am  a  son  of  a  private  soldier  of  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia."  Colburn  smiled. 
"General  Colburn  was  not  a  relative.  His 
family  was  from  the  Piedmont  section,  and  he 
a  most  admirable  example  of  my  belief.  My 
family  was  from  the  Valley." 

"My  father  and  two  brothers  were  with 
Jackson  all  through  the  Valley  campaign,  and 
later  my  father  and  one  brother  were  with  Lee. 
My  oldest  brother  was  killed  at  Second  Manas- 
sas.  My  father  was  wounded  at  Bloody  Angle, 
but  my  mother  got  him  home  before  he  died. 
36 


DINNER 

I  couldn't  go,  suh.  I  wasn't  but  twelve,  and 
they  wouldn't  let  me  go.  I  stole  a  drum  and 
ran  away  twice,  but  they  brought  me  back. 
They  wouldn't  even  let  me  beat  a  drum!" 

Colburn  got  up.  In  the  South-Carolinian's 
eyes  was  a  gleam  he  had  often  seen  before.  He 
knew  it  well,  knew  it  meant  a  relighting  of 
battles,  a  retelling  of  old  tales,  tales  of  endur- 
ance and  daring  as  brave  and  splendid  as  history 
has  ever  recorded,  but  he  did  not  want  to  hear 
them  again  to-night.  He  glanced  around  the 
room.  Surely  something  sharp,  swift,  decisive 
was  preferable  to  the  silent  struggle  going  on 
about  him,  and  the  soldiers  who  fought  amid 
the  noise  and  roar  of  battle  were  fortunate 
compared  to  this  regiment  in  which  he  found 
himself.  The  lights  and  laughter,  the  flowers 
and  pretty  gowns  of  the  women  seemed  sud- 
denly ghastly,  and  he  pushed  back  his  chair 
with  a  quick  movement  of  his  hands. 

"Good  night."  He  bowed  to  the  table  in 
general.  "I'll  see  you  in  the  morning,  I 
suppose?" 

"Hope  so."  Mr.  McKenzie  got  up,  and  his 
squinty  little  eyes  were  turned  to  a  table  at  the 
far  end  of  the  room.  "I  wonder  how  much 
longer  that  child  is  going  to  take  to  eat  her 
dinner.  She's  the  worst  whist-player  on  the 
4  37 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

place.  She  will  talk.  She's  a  terrible  player, 
but —  Oh,  well,  there  are  some  women  you 
just  want  to  have  around!  There  are  some, 
suh,  but,  by  Heaven,  there  are  many  more  you 
don't!" 


IV 

THE   SYSTEM 

A  TAP  next  morning  on  his  door  waked 
Colburn  from  the  nap  into  which  he  had 
fallen  a  half-hour  earlier,  and  the  tone  of  his 
"What  is  it?"  was  not  polite. 

The  night  had  been  a  bad  one.  An  indefinable 
restlessness  had  possessed  him,  and  the  demor- 
alizing sensation  which  had  occurred  occasion- 
ally during  the  days  of  weakness  following  his 
attack  of  pneumonia,  and  which  he  could  only 
liken  to  the  sudden  stopping  of  the  beating  of 
his  heart,  had  upset  him  strangely,  and  not  for 
hours  could  he  get  over  its  effect.  The  sense  of 
cowardice  which  accompanied  the  sensation  was 
so  new  and  appalling  that  the  principal  emo- 
tions following  it  were  indignation  and  irri- 
tation. 

It  was  inconceivable  that  a  man  of  thirty- 
three  who  had  never  before  been  ill,  and  to  whom 
fear  was  as  unknown  as  confidence  was  natural, 
should  at  times  find  himself  without  warning  in 

39 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

a  condition  of  puerile  panic  and  nerveless  weak- 
ness, and  with  the  condition  he  had  neither 
patience  nor  sympathy.  With  it  was  no  feeling 
of  faintness.  Rather  was  the  feeling  one  of 
acute  consciousness,  of  the  sudden  surrender 
of  fancied  protection,  of  the  unworth-whileness 
of  human  striving,  and  of  contrasts  in  clear 
relief  that  before  had  been  clouded ;  and  had  he 
been  walking  a  tight-rope  he  could  not  for  the 
moment  have  felt  more  helplessly  insecure.  It 
mattered  not  what  the  thing  was  called,  the 
thing  was  to  get  rid  of  it.  To  be  sick  was  a 
violation  of  common  sense.  It  didn't  pay. 
His  failure  to  remember  so  simple  a  fact  de- 
served, perhaps,  the  penalty  exacted.  He  had 
walked  too  far  the  day  before,  overdone  the 
thing;  but  though  all  this  and  more  he  had  said 
to  himself  during  the  hours  of  sleeplessness,  it 
had  not  taken  away  the  depression  that  pos- 
sessed him,  and  when  roused  by  the  tap  on  the 
door  he  was  in  a  frame  of  mind  that  was  neither 
spiritual  nor  polite. 

As  the  door  opened  he  turned  his  head. 
The  masseur  who  was  to  rub  him  stood  inside. 

"Good  morning."  The  man's  voice  indi- 
cated he  had  a  cold.  "Have  you  had  your 
bath,  sir?" 

"No,  I  haven't."  Colburn  changed  his  po- 
40 


THE    SYSTEM 

sition  and  closed  his  eyes.  "Don't  want  a 
bath.  Don't  want  anything.  Go  out,  will 
you?  I've  got  a  headache." 

"Sorry,  sir,  but  my  orders  are  for  massage 
at  this  hour,  and  if  I  don't  get  it  in  now  I 
won't  to-day.  Did  you  have  a  good  night, 
sir?" 

"Good  night?  Had  beastly  night.  That's 
•why  I  want  to  sleep.  You  needn't  try  to  get 
in  massage  to-day.  Go  out,  please!" 

'  The  man  hesitated.  He  was  a  part  of  the 
system  and  worked  mechanically.  To  leave 
undone  a  fraction  of  the  day's  appointed  work 
was  to  interfere  with  the  system.  He  came 
closer  to  the  bed. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  not  allowed  to  do  what 
the  patients  wish." 

"Well,  you'll  do  what  this  one  wishes."  Col- 
burn  half  rose  in  bed.  His  head  was  throbbing, 
and  he  was  limp  from  the  long  hours  of  wake- 
fulness.  He  looked  at  the  man,  and  the  ab- 
surdity of  being  rubbed  by  such  a  little  creature 
changed  his  tone. 

"Go  out,  my  son."  He  pointed  to  the  door. 
"I'll  see  the  king  and  answer  for  the  crime  com- 
mitted. I  am  not  going  to  be  massaged.  You 
understand  English,  don't  you?" 

"Yes  sir,  but—" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"But  nothing.  I'm  rarely  patient  long  at  a 
time.  Are  you  going?" 

The  man  went,  and  again  Colburn  tried  to 
sleep.  That  little  South-Carolinian  might  pre- 
fer a  place  of  rules  to  a  place  of  free  will,  he 
thought,  drowsily,  but  he  did  not  agree  with 
the  South  -  Carolinian.  Regulations  were  un- 
doubtedly necessary,  but  so  was  flexibility.  A 
knock  at  the  door  made  him  start,  its  firmness 
was  so  emphatic. 

"Well?" 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  nurse,  the  nurse  he 
had  dodged  since  Baywood  had  been  entered. 
Her  eyes  were  yellow,  her  cheek-bones  were 
large,  her  chin  was  small,  and  her  expression  one 
that  created  argument  even  though  she  said  no 
word,  and  to  himself  Colburn  thought  things 
that  were  not  well  to  think  aloud. 

"Are  you  sick  this  morning?"  A  thermom- 
eter was  shaken  in  the  air.  "Reisen  tells  me 
you  refused  to  be  rubbed." 

"I  did."  Colburn  pulled  the  bedclothes  up 
to  his  chin.  ' '  I  am  not  sick,  but  I  have  a  head- 
ache. I'll  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  let  me 
alone  so  I  can  get  some  sleep." 

"You'll  have  to  get  permission  from  the 
doctor  if  you  want  to  sleep.  Your  bath-hour  is 
seven,  hot  milk  half  past,  massage  eight,  and 
42 


THE    SYSTEM 

breakfast  nine,  and  you've  thrown  everything 
out  because  you  want  to  sleep.  You  must  be 
outdoors  by  nine-thirty  unless  you  have  tem- 
perature." 

Thermometer  in  his  mouth,  Colburn  studied 
the  face  bent  upon  the  watch  held  in  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  his  pulse  was  counted.  It 
was  a  pity  for  a  woman  to  be  handicapped  by  a 
face  of  that  kind.  He  wished  it  was  on  a  china 
doll  and  belonged  to  him.  If  he  had  tempera- 
ture it  would  be  her  fault. 

The  watch  was  closed  and  the  tube  taken 
from  his  mouth.  "You'll  have  to  get  up,"  she 
said.  "  You  have  no  temperature,  and  patients 
aren't  allowed  to  stay  in  their  rooms  unless 
they're  sick." 

"Aren't  they?"  Colburn  turned  over  on  his 
side.  "That's  bad.  I'll  be  obliged  if  you  will 
close  the  door  when  you  go  out." 

The  nurse  hesitated  and  looked  around  the 
room.  "Do  you  wish  me  to  ask  permission 
for  you  to  sleep?" 

"I  do  not.  You  might  ask  the  sun  to  stop 
shining.  The  glare  is  rather  disagreeable;  and 
don't  forget,  please,  to  close  the  door." 

For  half  an  hour  the  stillness  was  unbroken, 
and,  eyes  covered  with  his  hand  to  keep  them 
from  the  light,  Colburn  tried  to  sleep.  The 

43 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

desire,  he  thought,  was  innocent  enough,  and 
the  difficulty  of  achievement  out  of  proportion 
to  its  innocence,  but  doubtless  that,  too,  was  a 
part  of  the  system.  In  personal  matters  for 
some  years  he  had  paid  no  attention  to  system. 
In  business  it  was  essential,  and  perhaps  he  had 
carried  it  too  far  in  business,  but  liberty  of 
preference  at  times  should  be  allowed  all  men, 
and  if  he  wanted  to  sleep  why  should  he  have 
to  get  up?  He  wasn't  going  to  get  up. 

Somebody  was  standing  by  the  bed,  a  fat, 
good-natured  little  somebody,  with  red  cheeks 
and  big  blue  eyes,  and  in  her  hands  was  a  large 
tray. 

"I  knocked,  but  you  didn't  say  come  in,  so  I 
came  anyhow."  She  laid  the  tray  on  the 
table.  "When  breakfast  is  served  in  the  room 
we  are  not  allowed  to  bring  it  back  uneaten. 
It's  awfully  cold  this  morning.  Don't  you 
want  me  to  close  the  windows  while  you're 
having  breakfast?" 

Colburn  opened  his  eyes,  which  at  the  sight 
of  the  tray  he  had  closed.  "I  don't  want  any 
breakfast."  He  tried  to  keep  impatience  from 
his  voice.  She  was  only  the  instrument  of  the 
system  and  was  not  to  blame  any  more  than  she 
was  to  blame  for  her  round,  rosy,  unintelligent 
face  with  the  eyes  that  would  only  see  the  out- 
44 


THE    SYSTEM 

wardness  of  things.  "I  don't  want  any  break- 
fast, and  I  wish  you  would  close  the  windows 
and  pull  down  the  shades,  please — pull  them 
way  down." 

"Oh,  but  you're  bound  to  eat  your  break- 
fast! It's  been  weighed  and  the  record's  been 
made,  and  I  wouldn't  dare  bring  it  back!" 

Her  tone  was  a  bit  frightened,  and  again 
Colburn  looked  at  her;  then  he  sat  up.  "How 
are  you  going  to  make  me  eat  it?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  looked  in  the  mirror 
opposite  the  bed  and  straightened  her  cap. 
"If  you'd  try  you  could.  I'm  sure  you  could. 
It's  very  nice.  I'm  responsible  for  your  break- 
fast and — " 

"Then  why  don't  you  eat  it?" 

"I  can't.  I've  had  mine,  and  it  wouldn't  be 
the  same  thing,  and  Miss  Jarvis  gets  so  cross 
if  the  patients  don't  eat.  She  thinks  it's  re- 
flecting, and  she  says  she  can  stand  anything 
but  reflections." 

Colburn  made  a  swift  movement  with  his 
hand,  and  before  the  girl  could  stop  him  he 
had  thrown  grapefuit  and  quail  and  toast 
through  the  open  window  upon  the  well-kept 
lawn,  and  followed  it  with  the  pot  of  coffee. 

"Put  it  on  the  bill,"  he  said,  "and  tell  Miss 
Jarvis  to  keep  the  broken  pieces  for  reflec- 

45 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

tions.     And  close  the  door,  please  —  close  it 
tight." 

This  time  he  covered  his  head  with  the 
counterpane  and  under  it  he  said  ungodly 
things.  He  had  come  to  Baywood  for  rest  and 
quiet  and  scientific  treatment,  and  he  was 
getting  treatment  only,  treatment  with  common 
sense  left  out.  When  the  doctor  had  pro- 
nounced sentence  and  ordered  him  into  the 
exile  of  such  a  place  as  this  his  first  thought  had 
been  one  of  thanksgiving  that  his  mother  did 
not  know.  She  was  spared,  and  he  was  glad, 
but —  He  bit  his  teeth  into  his  lips. 

"Letters,  sir!" 

A  head  was  thrust  through  the  door  and  a 
couple  of  letters  were  thrown  upon  the  bed. 
Colburn  reached  out  his  hand,  looked  at  them 
and  put  them  on  the  table  by  his  side.  Both 
were  from  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  en- 
gaged, but  he  did  not  read  them.  He  could 
imagine  pretty  well  what  was  in  them.  Isabel's 
letters  were  singularly  alike.  As  examples  of 
expression  for  people  of  less-restrained  emo- 
tions and  impulses  it  was  a  pity  they  couldn't 
be  printed.  Impulse  and  emotion  were  not 
characteristics  of  Isabel,  and  if  possessed  of 
them  she  kept  them  under  the  control  of  her 
judgment.  Her  judgment  was  admirable. 

46 


THE    SYSTEM 

During  his  illness  and  through  the  weeks  of 
weary  convalescence  she  had  sent  flowers  and 
notes  with  unfailing  faithfulness,  but  she  never 
came  to  see  him.  The  engagement  had  not  been 
announced,  and  conventionality  forbade,  and 
conventionality  was  the  shrine  before  which 
Isabel  knelt  in  worship  and  rendered  the  homage 
of  acquiescence. 

It  was  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  he  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him,  a  pity  that  she  had  promised. 
He  had  not  done  it  on  impulse.  It  must  have 
been  done  deliberately,  for  it  had  been  a  very 
calm  occasion.  When  he  was  young,  hundreds 
of  years  ago  when  he  was  young,  he  had  imag- 
ined that  when  a  man  asked  a  woman  to  marry 
him  it  would  be  an  awesome  and  wonderful 
and  thrilling  experience,  preceded  by  alternate 
waves  of  abject  doubt  and  delirious  hope;  and 
if  she  promised  he  would  go  away  feeling  as  the 
knights  of  old  must  have  felt,  that  upon  him 
had  been  laid  the  insignia  of  a  great  order,  the 
order  of  The  Love  of  Man  for  Woman,  and  the 
ground  upon  which  he  trod  would  seem  a  holy 
thing. 

He  must  have  been  a  very  silly  boy.  His 
old-fashioned  romantic  ideas  he  should  have 
outgrown  when  he  found  they  were  out  of  date, 
but  a  good  many  of  his  ideas  he  did  not  seem  to 

47 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

outgrow.  He  was  thought  a  man  of  business 
only,  and  business  perhaps  had  been  his  god — 
known  or  unknown,  all  people  have  their  gods — 
but  he  was  a  good  deal  more  than  a  man  of 
business.  Was  he?  He  stirred  restlessly.  He 
must  write  to  Isabel  about  the  Colesworth 
house.  She  had  wanted  him  to  buy  it  before 
he  went  away.  To  own  this  house  of  marble 
and  mirrors  had  been  rather  beyond  his  am- 
bitions, and  his  ambitions  were  not  modest; 
but  it  was  not  beyond  Isabel's.  It  was  for  sale, 
and  as  its  possessor  he  would  own  the  hand- 
somest house  in  his  city,  but  it  was  not  the  kind 
of  house  he  would  select  were  the  choice  left 
with  him.  Still,  if  Isabel  wanted  it —  He  had 
given  Ralstone  power  of  attorney,  and  if  the 
owner  of  the  house  would  accept  his  offer  he 
would  write  Ralstone  to  close  the  deal. 

He  pushed  the  counterpane  from  his  face  and 
with  his  hand  shielded  his  eyes  from  the  light. 
If  something  could  be  pressed  on  them  the 
throbbing  might  cease.  The  sun  must  be  going 
under  a  cloud,  the  room  was  getting  so  dark. 
It  was  very  still;  very,  very  still.  Something 
was  pressing  on  his  eyes,  something  cool  and 
firm  which  was  making  the  pain  grow  less  and 
less.  It  was  strange ;  he  had  heard  no  one  come 
in. 

48 


THE    SYSTEM 

What  on  earth  could  she  be  doing  in  here! 
Though  his  eyes  were  closed  by  the  pressure  of 
her  fingers,  he  could  see  her  very  clearly.  She 
had  on  the  same  dress  she  wore  the  night  before, 
the  simple  dark-blue  dress  with  the  lace  collar 
open  at  the  throat;  but  brilliant  color  was  no 
longer  in  her  face,  rather  was  it  pale,  and  the 
black  hair,  parted  and  rolled  back,  made  it 
paler  by  contrast.  Bending  slightly  forward, 
her  head  uplifted  as  if  listening,  one  hand  was 
on  his  eyes,  the  other  outstretched  as  if  to  keep 
back  that  which  might  disturb,  and  he  knew 
she  understood  why  he  did  not  thank  her  for 
coming.  If  she  would  only  stay,  the  pain  would 
go  away ;  there  was  very  little  now.  Surely  she 
would  not  go  away ! 

"My  dear  man!"  The  voice  was  soft  and 
unctuous.  "In  bed  on  such  a  day  as  this? 
Nothing  serious,  I  hope?  Not  careful  enough! 
Always  the  trouble  at  first,  not  careful  enough!" 

Slowly  Colburn's  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked 
in  the  doctor's  face  as  one  waked  suddenly  looks 
with  wonder  as  to  where  he  is,  then  he  closed 
them  sharply. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Colburn?" 
The  big  blond  head  of  the  doctor  was  bent 
solicitously  over  the  bed,  and  the  palm  of  one 
49 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

hand  was  pressed  lightly  on  the  palm  of  the 
other.  "  The  nurse  tells  me  you  insist  upon 
sleeping,  which  indicates  listlessness  and  inertia. 
You  must  let  me  do  something  for  you,  some- 
thing to  help  you." 

"I  wish  you  would."  Colburn  sat  up  and 
shook  his  pillow.  "There  is  a  boy  about  here 
somewhere  named  Cricket.  Send  him  to  me, 
will  you?  I'd  like  to  employ  him  for  an  hour 
or  so.  He  uses  language  that  at  times  I  like 
very  much  to  hear." 


V 

A   NIGHT   VISIT 

TIRED  to-night,  little  book,  but  only  you 
need  know  it!  Everybody  is  tired  to- 
night ;  and,  not  having  you  to  tell  it  to,  they're 
telling  it  to  one  another,  so  I  slipped  away.  One 
gets  so  tired  of  tiredness  and  of  all  the  old,  old 
'Whys.'  I'm  always  asking  why — and  why 
don't  I  leave  to  others  the  cracking  of  those 
riddles  called  the  'Universe  and  Life'?" 

At  a  sound  in  the  hall  Taska  Laird's  head  was 
held  alert,  then  she  got  up  from  the  table  at 
which  she  had  been  writing  and,  going  to  the 
door,  locked  it.  The  hour  was  rather  late  for 
interruptions,  still  it  was  well  to  protect  herself 
from  possible  chats  with  the  other  occupants  of 
her  cottage  as  they  came  from  library  or  card 
or  music  rooms,  and  as  an  extra  precaution  she 
turned  off  all  lights  save  the  one  in  the  lamp  on 
the  table.  Her  bed  was  on  the  veranda,  and 
ready  for  her  were  the  warm  clothes  in  which 

Si 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

she  slept,  but  she  was  not  sleepy,  and,  moreover, 
she  must  write. 

Coming  back  to  the  little  book  in  which  she 
had  been  writing,  she  looked  at  the  first  date  in 
it,  then,  sitting  down,  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  glanced  over  the  closely  written  pages. 
How  did  people  manage  to  live  who  didn't  let 
out  to  somebody  or  something  all  the  queer, 
surging,  questioning  things  that  were  in  them, 
and  which,  though  no  one  could  answer,  must, 
nevertheless,  be  asked?  How  did  they  live 
without  something  or  somebody  to  tell  things 
to?  She  didn't  have  the  somebody,  but  she 
had  the  something.  Besides,  people  told  things, 
and  so  few  understood. 

Certainly  few  understood  her.  One's  inmost 
self  was  not  supposed  to  be  understood,  but 
one's  outward  self  had  some  claim  to  under- 
standing; yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  they  thought 
her  one  thing,  and  she  was  so  oftentimes  most 
verily  another.  Well,  why  not?  If  they  be- 
lieved her  light  of  heart  and  free  of  care,  why 
not  again?  It  was  little  enough  to  seem  un- 
daunted, to  keep  a  smiling  face  and  a  stout 
heart.  She  picked  up  her  pen  and  again  began 
to  write  rapidly.  j*1/  .: 

"But  I  haven't  a  stout  heart,  little  book. 
Sometimes  I  am  so  tired  and  afraid,  and  to  laugh 

52 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

when  I  long  terribly  to  cry — yes,  cry — I  don't 
do  it,  but  I'd  like  to — isn't  half  as  easy  as  it 
seems  to  others.  What  a  bumpy  old  highway 
it  is  we're  on!  Some  are  too  busy  to  stop  and 
question,  to  puzzle  and  bother,  and  wonder  what 
the  pack  on  the  other  man's  back  is,  and  some 
don't  care.  It  is  only  their  pack  of  which  they 
think,  but  everywhere,  everywhere  are  people 
and  packs,  and  a  lift  is  the  least  we  each  can 
give.  There  were  so  many  things  I  wanted 
to  do,  so  many  things  I  wanted  to  be !  Thou- 
sands more  like  me !  Homes,  and  houses  which 
aren't  homes,  and  hospitals,  and  Sans  are  full  of 
them.  I  wish  I  could  send  them  a  message — 
send  them  my  love  and  tell  them  I  understand 
down  to  the  bottom  and  up  to  the  top.  Hello, 
people!  It's  no  use  pretending  we  haven't  a 
pack,  but  a  big,  big  use  in  keeping  it  where  it 
belongs. 

"A  new  pack-man  came  last  week.  He  is 
a  fellow- Virginian ;  by  nature  combative  rather 
than  philosophic,  I  imagine,  and  his  pack  has 
filled  him  with  a  good  large  lot  of  fury.  He 
isn't  afraid,  and  he  isn't  depressed.  He's  plain 
mad.  I'm  sorry  for  him,  sorry  for  anybody  who 
has  his  sort  of  fight  ahead,  but  I  can't  help  see- 
ing the  comical  side  of  it.  He  isn't  imperious, 
has  very  quiet,  almost  gentle  manners,  but  he 
5  53 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

has  evidently  been  accustomed  to  saying  to  one 
man  go,  and  he  goeth,  and  to  another  come,  and 
he  cometh;  and  he  is  going  to  hit  his  head  a 
good  many  times  before  he  will  admit  the 
thing  hit  is  there  to  stay,  and  he'd  better  be 
more  considerate  of  his  head. 

"He  has  a  very  steady  way  of  looking  at  you. 
Though  he  only  saw  your  face,  he'd  know  of  a 
surety  if  there  happened  to  be  a  hole  in  your 
stocking.  Doubtless  he  knows  a  good  deal 
about  the  Paleozoic  Age,  and  Ceramics  and  Cur- 
rency and  Finance  and  German  Philosophy,  but 
he  doesn't  know  life  as  well  as  Cricket  knows  it. 
To  meet  a  man  of  his  sort  is  good  for  you.  It 
makes  you  realize  it's  the  way  we  take  life 
that  makes  life.  He  takes  it  hard.  Also 
he  is  the  sort  of  man  Cricket  needs.  Most 
of  the  men  up  here  Cricket  thinks  are  jokes." 

A  knock  at  the  door  made  her  turn  quickly. 
Pen  in  hand,  she  listened  and  then  glanced  at 
the  clock.  It  was  after  ten;  she  must  have 
been  mistaken  in  thinking  she  heard  some 
one. 

"Miss  Laird?"  The  voice  was  low  and 
shivering.  "Miss  Laird,  are  you  up?" 

Opening  the  door,  Taska  looked  at  the  nurse 
standing  in  the  hall,  arms  hugged  to  her  breast. 
' '  Who  is  it  ?' '  She  stopped.  ' '  You  look  frozen 

54 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

to  death,  Miss  Babbitt.  What's  the  matter? 
Come  in." 

The  nurse  came  inside.  She  laughed.  "I 
am  frozen.  It's  horribly  cold,  and  I  didn't  stop 
to  get  a  coat.  I  didn't  want  to  come;  it  isn't 
fair  the  way  you're  sent  for,  but  she  made  me; 
said  she  must  see  you.  For  two  hours  she  has 
been  on  the  verge  of  hysterics  and — " 

"Who  has?    Who  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Mrs.  Woods.  I  thought  you  knew.  Yes- 
terday she  spit  a  bit  of  blood.  It  doesn't  mean 
anything — came  from  her  nose  probably — but  it 
terrified  her  to  death.  She  had  been  getting  on 
nicely  and  really  getting  well,  but  since  yester- 
day she's  been  afraid  to  move,  and  to-night 
she's  all  to  pieces.  It's  all  nonsense — " 

"No,  it  isn't  nonsense."  Taking  off  her  slip- 
pers, Taska  put  on  her  shoes  and  a  big  warm 
coat.  "While  it's  got  you,  fear  is  the  most  real, 
the  most  genuine  thing  on  earth.  Those  who 
don't  suffer  from  it  think  it  is  silly,  until  their 
time  comes.  It  always  comes." 

"Never  seems  to  come  to  you.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  it's  lack  of  self-control.  I  don't 
believe  in  pampering  it." 

"Dear  healthy  animal — your  time  hasn't 
come."  Taska  laughed  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  "Fear  has  a  thousand  forms,  and 

55 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

though  it  may  belong  to  the  collateral  class  of 
diseases,  with  some  people  it's  a  major  trouble. 
Panic  is  not  peculiar  to  weakness  and  women. 
Strong  men  and  horses  are  possessed  at  times. 
I  wish  you'd  come  earlier.  I  was  just  going  to 
bed." 

Hurrying  down  the  steps  and  across  the  lawn 
to  a  cottage  at  the  left  of  the  main  building,  the 
two  women  walked  swiftly.  The  night  was  clear 
and  the  sky  thickly  studded  with  stars,  but 
there  was  no  moon,  and  the  stinging  air  was  as 
silent  as  if  frozen.  Most  of  the  cottages  were 
dark.  On  several  of  the  verandas  their  occu- 
pants were  asleep  on  the  beds  which  at  night 
were  rolled  out  of  their  rooms,  and  as  one  was 
passed  Miss  Babbitt  touched  Taska's  arm 
meaningly. 

"There's  the  cause  of  half  the  trouble." 
Her  voice  was  lowered  to  a  careful  undertone. 
"I  believe  he  reads  all  night  long.  If  he'd  go 
away  she  might  get  well." 

Taska  looked  behind,  but  made  no  comment, 
and  as  Mrs.  Woods's  door  was  reached  she 
turned  to  the  nurse.  "Let  me  go  in  alone,"  she 
said.  "You  take  a  nap  and  come  back  in  half 
an  hour." 

The  nurse  hesitated.  "You  shouldn't  stay 
that  long.  She  nearly  wears  me  out." 

56 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

"She  won't  wear  me  out."  Taska  smiled 
and  went  in,  and  as  she  closed  the  door  Mrs. 
Woods,  in  a  low  chair  and  wrapped  in  a  pink 
satin  quilt,  held  out  her  hands  eagerly,  then 
burst  into  tears.  "Oh,  Taska,  Taska!" 

Taking  off  her  coat  and  drawing  a  chair 
closer  to  the  sobbing  woman,  Taska  waited  for 
the  first  paroxysm  to  pass.  She  had  seen  tears 
of  this  sort  many  times  before.  "Well,"  she 
said,  presently,  "well,  aren't  you  going  to  tell 
me  about  it.  That's  what  I  came  for.  Let's 
take  it  out  and  look  at  it  and  see  if  it  is  really  as 
big  as  you  think." 

With  her  ring-laden  fingers  Mrs.  Woods 
pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  then  wiped 
her  cheeks  and  lips.  "Take  out  what?"  she 
said.  "Oh,  I'm  wretched  and  miserable,  and 
I'm  going  to  die!  I  know  I'm  going  to  die!" 
And  again  the  tears  began  to  fall. 

' '  You  certainly  are. ' '  Taska's  voice  was  cheer- 
fully emphatic.  "So  am  I.  So  is  everybody 
we  know.  But  you  needn't  make  final  arrange- 
ments just  yet.  Dr.  Browner  says  T.  B.  isn't 
going  to  kill  you.  It  will  have  to  be  something 
else." 

"But  yesterday  I  spit  blood!"  The  voice 
was  thin  and  frightened.  "Spit  it  twice!" 

"That's  nothing.  I've  spit  it  a  dozen  times 
57 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

from  my  nose,  just  as  you  did.  Did  you  think 
it  was  from  your  lungs?" 

"I  know  it  was,  and  I'm  so  wretched  and 
miserable!  I  want  to  live — and  be  happy!  I 
want—" 

For  a  moment  Taska  looked  at  the  cowering 
woman,  her  face  covered  by  her  hands,  and  pity 
and  impatience  struggled  with  irritation  and 
sympathy;  then  she  glanced  around  the  room. 
In  it  were  all  the  luxuries  allowed  by  hygienic 
restriction.  On  the  bed  was  the  lace-frilled 
pink  silk  room-gown,  which  had  been  replaced 
by  a  warmer  one  of  wool,  and  under  it  were  the 
slippers  to  match.  On  bureau  and  tables  were 
the  costly  paraphernalia  of  toilet  accessories, 
and  between  the  windows  a  jar  of  American 
beauties.  From  the  tear-soaked  handkerchief 
came  the  faint  fragrance  of  violets,  and  sud- 
denly Taska  leaned  forward. 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  tooth  taken  out, 
Mrs.  Woods?" 

"A  tooth?"  The  hands  came  from  the  face, 
and  two  undoubtedly  pretty  eyes  looked  into 
Taska's.  "Not  since  I  was  a  child.  Why?" 

"I  wondered  if  you  remembered  how  it  hurt, 
and  yet  how  necessary  it  was  to  get  it  out. 
Listen!"  She  took  the  two  slender  hands  in 
hers,  and  gradually  their  trembling  grew  less 

58 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

and  less.  "You  have  got  something  very  deadly 
the  matter  with  you." 

"Oh,  don't!"  The  voice  was  a  cry  of  terror. 
"Don't!" 

"Yes,  you  have.  It  is  self -disease.  A  great 
many  people  have  it.  Some  call  it  egoitis,  some 
damn-foolitis,  and  some  don't  call  it  at  all,  but 
it  causes  more  disaster  than  all  other  illnesses 
put  in  a  bunch.  It  warps  and  twists  and  ruins 
the  person's  soul  and  mind  and  heart,  but  it 
doesn't  put  the  body  in  the  grave.  You've  got 
it.  You  think  you've  got  T.  B.  badly,  think 
you've  got  a  lot  of  things  you  haven't,  but  the 
tooth  that's  giving  the  trouble  you  won't  let 
come  out.  Dr.  Browner  says  physically  you're 
in  very  good  shape,  and  in  a  month  or  two  you 
can  go  home." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  home!"  A  slippered 
foot  was  swung  petulantly.  "He  doesn't 
know  how  I  feel.  I'm  afraid  of  everything, 
afraid—" 

"All  of  us  are  afraid  sometimes."  Taska's 
voice  was  quiet,  and  her  hands  held  firmly  those 
of  the  many  rings.  "Do  you  think  you  are 
the  only  one  who  wants  to  live — and  is  afraid? 
You've  lost  confidence  in  everything  but  your 
own  emotions  and  sensations." 

"I  didn't  send  for  you  to  lecture  me!"  This 
59 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

time  the  voice  was  petulant.  "I  don't  want  to 
know  about — " 

"There  are  a  great  many  things  you  don't 
want  to  know  but  are  going  to  know.  If  you 
could  lose  your  money  and  had  to  take  in 
washing  and  make  your  children's  clothes  and 
cook  for  your  husband  a  year  or  so,  you'd  get 
well.  Your  first  and  last  thought  wouldn't 
then  be  yourself."  She  laughed.  "If  you 
didn't  want  plain  truth,  why  did  you  send 
for  me?  You  always  get  it."  Suddenly  she 
straightened.  "Why  don't  you  pull  yourself 
together,  Mrs.  Woods?  You  know  perfectly 
well  what's  the  matter.  You've  been  playing 
with  fire,  and  it  has  burned." 

Over  the  face  before  her  spread  gray  ashiness, 
and  for  a  moment  Taska  was  frightened ;  then 
she  spoke  again.  "You  think  you  are  miser- 
able because  you've  spit  a  bit  of  blood.  It  isn't 
that.  Why  did  you  send  for  me,  Mrs.  Woods  ?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  again 
the  tear-stained  face  was  buried  in  the  soft  and 
nerveless  hands.  "I  sent  for  you  because  I 
must  talk  to  somebody.  I  shall  choke  and 
smother  if  I  keep  it  to  myself,  and  you — you 
always  understand  even  if  you  do  say  dreadful 
brutal  things.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be 
afraid  of  death.  I've  little  enough  to  live  for. 
60 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

There's  only  one  thing  worth  living  for,  and 
I've  never  had  that.  People  think  I  have — 
think  because  I  have  everything  money  can 
buy  I  ought  to  be  happy!"  She  sat  upright, 
and  her  fingers  twisted  and  untwisted  in  ner- 
vous, unconscious  movements.  "I  do  have 
everything  money  can  buy,  but  it  can't  buy 
the  thing  I  want.  I  want  happiness.  Why 
shouldn't  I  have  it?  To  please  my  parents  I 
married  a  rich  man  who  was  going  to  be  richer. 
They  knew  I  didn't  love  him." 

"Yet,  he  is  the  father  of  your  children." 
Taska  shivered  slightly,  and  her  hands  stiffened. 
"Go  on." 

"Yes,  he  is  the  father  of  my  children,  and  for 
their  sake  I've  pretended  to  be  happy.  I 
crowded  the  days  and  nights  to  keep  from 
thinking,  went  everywhere,  gave  endless  par- 
ties, and  drifted  further  and  further.  We  had 
nothing  in  common.  He  hates  traveling,  cares 
nothing  for  sports  of  any  kind,  reads  nothing, 
does  nothing  but  make  money." 

"That's  what  you  married  him  for,  wasn't 
it — his  ability  to  make  money?  Doesn't  he 
care  for  the  children?" 

"Yes."  The  voice  hesitated,  and  the  lace  on 
the  handkerchief  was  pulled  into  points.  "He 
cares  for  the  children,  but  they  are  rarely  at 
61 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

home.  For  the  last  few  years  I've  been  sick 
so  much,  in  a  hospital  or  traveling,  that  it  was 
best  for  them  to  be  with  his  mother  in  the 
country.  Rutledge  is  nine  and  Sarah  is  six,  and 
I  hardly  know  them.  Yet  it's  for  them  I've 
played  a  part.  I  had  made  my  bargain  and 
expected  to  stick  to  it,  but  I  did  not  know  I 
should  ever  know  what — " 

"Goon." 

"Oh,  it's  no  use  using  that  tone.  I  could 
have  used  it,  too,  before  I  knew  what — love  is." 

"Do  you  know  now?" 

"Yes,  I  do."  Mrs.  Woods  sat  still  further 
upright.  Fear  and  weakness  yielded  to  self- 
will  and  desire.  "When  one  doesn't  know 
one  cannot  understand,  but  when  one  does — 
Well,  I  know.  I  have  been  starved  and  fam- 
ished for  comradeship,  for  understanding,  for 
happiness,  for  what  one  has  the  right  to  ask  of 
life.  Before  I  knew  I  thought  I  had  accepted 
negativeness.  We  all  think  that  until  we  see 
what  we  have  been  waiting  for,  not  knowing  that 
we  waited." 

"But  why  did  you  send  for  me  to  tell  this 
to?"  Taska  leaned  forward.  In  her  voice  was 
neither  impatience  nor  pity.  "You  are  most 
right.  I  know  nothing  of  that  of  which  you 
seem  to  know  so  much.  I  might  understand  at 

62 


a  telling  many  things  of  which  I  was  before 
ignorant,  but  eternity  wouldn't  be  long  enough 
to  make  me  understand  how  a  woman  could 
forget  her  children." 

"I'm  not  forgetting  my  children!  But  do 
you  think  a  woman  should  continue  to  live  with 
a  man  she  doesn't  love?" 

"Not  fifteen  seconds.  Neither  do  I  think 
she  should  marry  a  man  she  doesn't  love." 

The  face  opposite  flushed.  "Oh,  we  all 
think  that  and  continue  to  do  it.  When  noth- 
ing happens  to  make  us  realize  its  unendurable- 
ness  we  keep  on,  but  when  it  does  we  lose  some 
of  our  correctness  and  some  of  our  cynicism.  I 
may  not  have  long  to  live,  but  in  the  while  I 
have  I  want  happiness — and  I  mean  to  get  it." 

"How?" 

Elbow  on  the  table  and  chin  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand,  Taska's  clear  eyes  held  those,  now  de- 
fiant, that  for  a  moment  were  raised  to  hers. 
"How?"  she  repeated. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  Mrs. 
Woods  stirred  uneasily.  "I  am  only  going  to 
do  what  thousands  of  others  have  done.  I  am 
going  to  get  a  divorce.  There's  hardly  a  family 
in  America  that  hasn't  some  member  in  it 
divorced,  or  that  ought  to  be,  or  would  like  to 
be." 

63 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"And  after  the  divorce?" 

Again  the  pretty  face  colored.  "I  don't 
understand  you,  Taska.  I  sent  for  you  because 
I  knew  you  had  big  views  of  things,  saw  them 
in  the  large,  and  apart  from  the  petty  way  most 
people  see  them.  When  that  Mrs.  Dreed,  who 
was  here  when  you  first  came,  ran  away  with 
her  doctor  you  were  the  only  one  who  had  any 
sympathy  for  her,  the  only  one  who  didn't 
condemn  and  abuse  and  criticize,  the  only  one 
who  seemed  to  understand." 

' '  I  did  understand. ' '  Slipping  from  her  chair 
to  the  stool  at  Mrs.  Woods's  feet,  Taska  sat  on 
it,  and  took  in  her  firm  ones  the  frail  little 
hands  whose  fingers  were  still  picking  at  the 
lace  on  the  handkerchief  which  they  held.  "I 
did  understand — all  of  its  uselessness  and  piti- 
fulness  and  selfishness  and  stupidity,  and  I 
was  so  sorry  for  her.  It  was  going  to  last  such 
a  little  while,  the  happiness  to  which  they 
thought  they  had  a  right.  No  one  can  explain, 
but  certain  things  never  grow  in  but  one  sort 
of  soil,  and  happiness  is  one  of  them." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  good  deal  about  happi- 
ness and  how  it  grows.  One  would  think  you'd 
lived  a  dozen  lives." 

"Perhaps  I  have."  Taska  smiled.  "Cer- 
tainly I've  been  watching  people  for  a  long 
64 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

time,  wondering  about  them  and  what  it  is  that 
makes  and  unmakes  happiness.  You  think 
you've  found  out  what  it  is  to  love.  Are  you 
sure — are  you  very  sure  it's  love  that  you  have 
found?" 

"Of  course  I'm  sure.     I  tell  you  I  know." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  Taska 
again  looked  up.  ' '  When  I  came  in  I  asked  you 
what  it  was.  What  we  see  is  that  you  are  tired 
of  your  husband,  want  to  divorce  him  and 
marry — Mr.  Ambleton." 

Mrs.  Woods  started,  and  her  hands  fell  in  her 
lap.  "Oh,  don't!  don't!  We  mustn't  call 
names.  I  knew  I  could  trust  you,  but — " 

"We  must  call  names,  and  call  things  by 
their  right  names.  I  was  merely  stating  the 
situation.  You,  a  married  woman,  have  al- 
lowed yourself,  or  not  allowed — it  does  not  mat- 
ter— to  fall  in  love  with  a  man  who  has  made 
you  believe  he  is  in  love  with  you.  He  isn't 
in  love  with  you.  He  is  incapable  of  loving 
deeply  but  one  person  on  earth,  and  that  is  him- 
self. He  is  trying  to  persuade  you  to  get  a 
divorce  and  marry  him.  On  what  grounds? 
Incompatibility?  It  is  a  coward's  plea,  a 
whiner's,  and  generally  a  false  one.  If  a  man 
and  a  woman  cannot  live  together  with  respect, 
with  dignity,  with  affection,  even  if  there  be 
65 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

not  deep  love,  they  are  right  to  live  apart,  but 
you  would  have  continued  to  keep  your  hus- 
band's name,  to  live  in  his  home,  to  spend  his 
money  if  you  had  not  met  this  man  who  has 
fascinated  you,  made  you  believe  you  have 
found  out  what  it  is  to  love.  If  you  get  a 
divorce" — Taska  got  up — "for  the  love  of 
Heaven  get  it  honestly.  Get  it  because  you 
want  to  be  the  wife  of  another  man,  and  don't 
call  things  by  the  wrong  name." 

Mrs.  Woods  began  again  to  cry.  "You  have 
no  right  to  talk  to  me  like  this.  I  am  years 
older  than  you.  I  thought  you  would  under- 
stand and  sympathize." 

"No,  I  don't  understand.  With  many  kinds 
of  sins  I  am  sympathetic.  It's  hard  not  to  sin ; 
but  with  some  kinds  I  haven't  got  a  mite  of  sym- 
pathy. And  we're  tired,  the  world  is  tired  of 
this  song  of  the  right  to  lead  our  own  lives — 
our  lives  aren't  just  our  own.  Of  the  right  to 
get  happiness  in  our  own  way.  There  is  no  way 
of  getting  happiness  at  the  hurt  of  others.  If 
you  marry  your  man,  a  year  later  come  and  tell 
me  of  your  happiness!" 

"Don't  you  believe  divorced  people  who  re- 
marry are  happy?" 

"Perhaps  they  are.  But  the  causes  and  con- 
dition! of  divorce  and  remarriage  are  very 
66 


A   NIGHT   VISIT 

different.  It's  no  use  discussing  it.  If  I  could 
help  you  I  would.  You  don't  want  help.  Y»u 
want  your  way." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'd  be  committing  a 
sin  and  will  be  punished  for  the  sin."  Mrs. 
Woods's  voice  was  thinly  satiric.  "I've  passed 
that  point  of  view." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  reached  it." 
Taska  put  on  her  coat.  "Mine  is  that  of  the 
somebody  who  said  we  are  not  punished  for  our 
sins,  but  by  them.  Here's  Miss  Babbitt." 
She  turned  to  the  nurse,  who  was  at  the  door. 
"I  don't  think  your  patient  is  very  sick.  She 
just  thought  she  was.  Good  night,  Mrs.  Woods. 
Oh,  is  this  the  new  picture  of  your  little  girl?" 

She  took  up  a  photograph  in  a  silver  frame 
which  was  on  the  dressing-table  and  for  a  mo- 
ment looked  at  it  closely.  "What  beautiful, 
wonderful  eyes  she  has!"  Coming  close  to  the 
reclining-chair,  she  put  the  picture  in  the  hands 
that  again  were  trembling  and  laid  her  own  upon 
them. 

"Good  night.  May  she  bring  you  good 
dreams.  She  will  soon  be  going  to  her,  Miss 
Babbitt.  The  very  thought  of  her  should 
make  her  well  and — strong." 


VI 

A   FISHING   PARTY 

YOU'RE  not  as  friendly  as  I  thought, 
Cricket.  Didn't  you  tell  him  he  could 
go  with  us  some  Saturday?" 

"I  told  him  I'd  ask  you  if  he  could  go  with 
us."  Cricket  twisted  his  new  cap  into  a  round 
woolen  ball  and  looked  away  from  the  eyes  that 
were  looking  into  his. 

"I  said  I'd  ask  you,  but  I  didn't  mean  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  the  first  time  you  got  that 
book  you  promised  to  read  to  me.  I'm  going 
to  ask  you  next  Saturday." 

"No,  you're  not."  Taska  Laird  took  up  her 
fishing-rod  and  ran  her  hand  down  its  length. 
"You're  going  to  ask  him  this  Saturday. 
How  many  Saturdays  has  he  been  here?" 

"Three,  I  think.  Maybe  it's  four.  Lemme 
see."  The  fingers  of  Cricket's  left  hand  were 
separated  to  their  fullest  extent.  ' '  The  first  one 
Mis'  Lemmon  wouldn't  let  me  go,  and  the  sec- 
ond one  you  couldn't,  and  the  third  one  it 
68 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

rained,  and  this  is  the  fourth.  Don't  seem  like 
it's  been  four  weeks  since  Bettie  Roberts  had  her 
party,  but  that's  when  I  told  him  I'd  ask  you. 
He  was  a  downer  that  day;  didn't  say  much, 
but—" 

"If  he  feels  as  he  looks  he  won't  be  gay 
company  to-day.  Run  over  there  and  tell 
him  we're  going  to  Falling  Creek  this  morning 
and—" 

"Sure  you've  got  lunch  enough?"  Cricket 
stuck  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head  and, 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  twisted  twine, 
began  slowly  to  unravel  it.  "It's  as  cold  as 
blazes  this  morning  and  just  thinking  about 
fishing  makes  you  hungrier  'n  a  hound,  and 
you  promised  you'd  read  three  chapters  if  I'd 
use  polite  language  for  a  week.  I  haven't  said 
a  word  what  ain't  righteous  for  seven  days,  and 
you  can't  read  if  that  new  cuss  comes  along." 

"New  what?'.',  - 

"Cuss  ain't  cussing."  Cricket  shifted  his 
position  and  glanced  across  to  the  veranda 
steps  some  distance  off  on  which  a  man  was 
sitting.  "Tain't  that  I  don't  like  him.  I  like 
him  a  lot.  We  go  walking  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  and  he's  a  ripping  talker  when  he  feels 
like  being,  and  when  he  don't  he  just  chews 
his  cigar  and  lets  me  talk.  But  I  don't  want 

6  69 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

anybody  to-day  'cept  you  and  me  and  the 
book,  Miss  Taska.  Please,  'm,  don't  make  me 
ask  him  to-day." 

With  eyes  watching  their  every  movement 
the  man  of  whom  they  were  talking  lifted  his 
hat  as  Taska  looked  in  his  direction;  and  then, 
as  if  conscious  that  his  gaze  had  been  more 
steady  than  necessary,  he  opened  the  magazine 
on  the  step  beside  him  and  began,  seemingly,  to 
read.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  reading.  The 
day  was  splendidly  clear  and  cold,  and  the 
blueness  of  the  sky  and  brilliance  of  the  sun, 
together  with  a  subtle  something,  called  stir- 
ringly for  a  long  walk,  for  surrender  to  the  appeal 
of  woods  and  hills;  and  with  boyish  longing  he 
wished  they  would  ask  him  to  go  with  them, 
wherever  their  going  might  be. 

There  had  been  several  walks  with  Miss 
Laird  during  the  past  weeks,  and  the  days  on 
which  they  had  been  taken  were  the  days  that 
were  mentally  marked  as  strangely  apart  from 
the  dullness  of  the  ordinary  routine.  But, 
though  he  saw  her  every  day,  there  was  rarely 
opportunity  for  more  than  superficial  chatter; 
always,  always  there  was  some  one  else  around. 
She  was  a  good  talker,  and  she  had  ideas  of  her 
own — ideas  that  when  occasion  demanded  she 
would  not  keep  to  herself.  His  eyes  again 
70 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

upon  her,  he  wondered  what  the  present  con- 
versation was  about. 

"I'd  like  just  you  and  me  and  the  book,  too, 
Cricket,"  she  was  saying;  and,  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  her  sweater,  she  nodded  to  the  boy. 
"But  I  don't  believe  either  of  us  would  like 
being  left  alone  on  a  day  of  this  kind.  It's 
such  a  magnificent  day,  Cricket.  Which  do  you 
think  you'd  rather  do,  stay  here  alone  or  go 
fishing  with  me  and — and  Mr.  Colburn,  say?" 

"Rather  go  fishing  with  you." 

"Then  run  over  and  tell  him  what  I  said  just 
now  while  I  get  the  lunch.  If  he  wants  to  go 
he  must  be  ready  in  fifteen  minutes." 

Hands  in  his  pockets,  Cricket  stood  before 
his  new  acquaintance  and  dug  little  holes  in  the 
ground  with  the  heel  of  first  his  left  shoe  and 
then  his  right.  The  honest,  frank  eyes  were 
troubled.  Subterfuge  and  evasion  were  not  of 
his  understanding,  and,  though  ashamed  of  his 
unwillingness  to  extend  the  invitation  he  had 
offered  on  his  first  meeting,  he  was  firmly 
opposed  to  any  interruption  to  the  opening 
chapters  of  Huckleberry  Finn,  and  his  greeting 
was  not  as  cordial  as  it  might  have  been. 

"  Miss  Taska  says  would  you  like  to  go  fishing 
this  morning?" 

Colburn,  hands  clasped  loosely  between  his 
71 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

knees,  looked  at  the  boy  in  front  of  him  and 
smiled  slightly.  "Good  morning." 

"Good  morning."  With  a  swift  movement 
of  his  hand  Cricket's  cap  came  off.  "Awful 
cold  morning  to  go  fishing,  ain't  it?  Folks 
what  ain't  used  to  it— 

"Might  not  have  good  luck?"  Again  Col- 
burn  smiled.  "Tell  Miss  Laird  I  will  go  with 
pleasure.  She  is  very  good  to  ask  me." 

Twirling  his  cap,  the  boy  turned,  hesitated, 
and  came  back.  "You  won't  mind  if  she 
reads  a  little  while  to  me  after  we  eat  lunch, 
will  you?  I'll  make  a  big  fire,  and  you  can  go 
to  sleep  if  you  want  to,  and  if  you  don't— 

"I  may  listen?"  Colburn  got  up.  "I  think 
I'd  like  very  much  to  listen.  What's  the 
book?" 

"Huckleberry  Finn.''  Cricket  drew  in  a  deep 
breath.  "She  read  me  Tom  Sawyer  twice. 
Somebody  always  had  Huck  out  the  library, 
and  she  couldn't  get  it  until  to-day.  Ever 
read  it?" 

"Dozen  times." 

"Bully,  ain't  it!"  At  the  thought  of  coming 
joy  arms  were  swung  in  the  air,  and  with  shining 
face  Cricket  gazed  at  the  man  in  front  of  him. 
"Got  one  of  your  own?" 

Colburn  nodded.  "Got  two,  I  think.  Have 
72 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

everything  the  man  who  wrote  it  ever  wrote. 
What  time  shall  I  be  ready?" 

"Soon  as  lunch  is."  Squinting  his  eyes  to 
keep  out  the  dazzling  sunlight,  Cricket  again 
surveyed  the  man  on  the  steps. 

"Reckon  you'd  better  put  on  fishing-clothes 
if  you  have  any  feeling  for  them  you're  wearing. 
'Tain't  any  fun  if  you  have  to  be  particular. 
I'll  lend  you  my  rod  and  things."  He  stopped. 
' '  Don't  tell  her  I  told  you,  but  if  you  want  to  go 
again  you'd  better  look  like  you  was  enjoying 
yourself.  Miss  Taska  ain't  got  any  love  for 
grumps.  And  don't  keep  her  waiting.  She's 
an  awful  prompt  person." 

Half  an  hour  later,  basket  on  one  arm,  book 
under  the  other,  and  rod  on  his  shoulder, 
Cricket,  whistling  his  way  through  the  deep, 
fragrant  woods,  turned  occasionally  to  see  if  his 
companions  were  having  difficulty  in  following 
his  private  path  to  Falling  Creek,  some  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  away.  Very  narrow  was  the 
short  cut  he  was  making,  and  in  the  thick  carpet 
of  pine-needles  and  fallen  leaves  of  oak  and  fir 
the  footsteps  of  the  walkers  were  lost,  and  only 
the  sound  of  their  voices  or  the  rustle  of  low- 
hanging  branches  as  they  swung  back  after 
being  held  aside  by  Colburn  for  Taska  to  pass 
under  reached  the  boy  from  time  to  time. 

73 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

Presently  he  stopped  whistling  and,  squinting 
his  eye  at  a  bird  high  up  in  a  tree,  nodded 
soberly  toward  it. 

' '  Knowed  'twas  going  to  be  that  away.  Two 
is  a  company  and  three  ain't,  and  'tain't  ever 
going  to  be.  That's  the  way  that  man  did  who 
came  from  Buffalo  to  see  her.  He  was  a 
damn  pig,  that  man  was — I  mean  he  was  a  pig." 

Clear  laughter  from  the  girl  behind  him 
clouded  his  face,  and  slowly  he  took  a  piece  of 
string,  hidden  under  his  shirt,  from  around  his 
neck  and,  putting  down  book  and  basket  and 
rod,  tied  a  knot  in  it. 

"First  one  for  a  week,"  he  said  aloud. 
"Might  have  been  six  if  I'd  thought  about  that 
fellow  before  to-day.  Don't  seem  like  it  ought 
to  be  a  sin  to  call  a  thing  by  its  right  name,  and 
there  is  a  difference  in  pigs.  It's  a  page  out  of 
Huck,  though.  Got  to  tell  her,  and  every  word 
that  comes  out  what  oughtn't  is  a  page  less,  she 
says." 

Putting  the  string  around  his  neck  on  the  out- 
side that  he  might  remember,  he  waved  his  hand 
without  looking  around  and  again  trudged  on, 
whistling  as  cheerfully  as  if  the  little  interrup- 
tion had  not  occurred;  and,  watching  him,  the 
man  and  the  girl  laughed. 

"I  couldn't  have  stood  the  first  two  weeks 
74 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

if  it  hadn't  been  for  Cricket."  Hands  in  her 
sweater  pockets,  Taska  Laird,  walking  with  the 
easy  swing  of  one  used  to  country  roads,  looked 
at  the  boy  ahead  with  frankly  loving  eyes. 
"It  was  so  sudden,  so  amazing  and  unbeliev- 
able— that  I  was  a  Tuber,  I  mean" — she 
laughed  and  nodded  in  Cricket's  direction — 
"that  I  was  a  bit  blind  at  first,  and  bewildered 
and  dazed  and  indignant  and — so  sorry  for 
myself!  The  last  condition  might  have  been 
acute  if  Cricket  had  not  saved  me." 

"Or  you  saved  Cricket.  From  what  he  tells 
me  the  debt  is  on  his  side." 

"Oh,  that's  Cricket!  The  gladness  he  re- 
flects he  thinks  is  given,  and  much  that  he 
imagines  in  others  is  merely  his  own  radiation. 
He  made  me  see  things  I  didn't  want  to  see, 
perhaps.  I  don't  like  little  things  or  quiet 
places.  I  like  people  and  big  things.  I've 
always  wanted  to  deal  with  big  thoughts,  big 
issues,  big  ideas,  big  situations.  There's  so 
much  to  do.  Life  is  so  fine  a  chance" — she 
reached  up  and  pulled  a  branch  of  red  leaves 
from  the  tree  she  was  passing — "and  I  can  do 
nothing  but  wait  and  see  if  there  is  even  to  be 
life  at  all." 

Colburn  looked  ahead,  and  for  a  moment  no 
sound  broke  the  silence  save  the  rustle  of 
75 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

the  leaves  under  their  feet,  then  she  turned  to 
him.  "Forget  that,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  said  it." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  say  it?"  His  voice  was 
quiet,  but  in  it  was  no  longer  bitterness.  ' '  It  is 
nonsense  to  think  life  means  the  same  to  all 
people,  or  that  there  are  not  infinite  differences 
of  valuation.  To  many  it  is  merely  a  physical 
experience,  to  preserve  which  is  its  supreme 
purpose,  but  to  others  it  is  much  more  than  a 
matter  of  time.  To  sleep  and  wake  not  might 
be  cause  of  neither  sorrow  nor  regret,  but  to  be 
put  aside,  to  watch  rather  than  to  work,  to  wait 
instead  of  will,  to  see  others  take  our  places,  to 
give  nothing  to  life  and  get  nothing  out  of  it,  is 
asking  a  good  bit  of  human  nature.  To  meet 
the  demand  smilingly  is  beyond  human  ability." 

"Perhaps,  and  perhaps  not."  One  by  one 
the  red  leaves  were  slowly  pulled  off  and 
thrown  upon  the  ground;  then  her  head  went 
up,  and  she  smiled  a  gay,  wistful  little  smile. 
"Demands  must  be  met  or  evaded,  and  evasions 
wear  out.  But  suppose  we  had  died  when  we 
first  found  there  had  to  be  some  sort  of  a  fight, 
would  it  have  made  any  great  difference  after  the 
first  few  weeks?  Death  is  dreadfully  personal, 
terribly  important  to  oneself,  and  so  unimpor- 
tant to  the  rest--  of  the  world.  Oh,  I  don't 
76 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

mean" — she  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  prevent 
his  interruption — "that  to  some  few  our  going 
may  not  matter  very  much,  but  to  life —  How 
many  of  us  live  lives  that  count  ?"  She  stopped. 
"What  in  the  world  am  I  talking  about  on  a 
day  like  this!  Aren't  the  pines  magnificent? 
Tell  me  of  your  cousin,  Miss  Joyner.  Is  she 
still  abroad?  I  met  her  at  Trouville.  She  was 
very  lovely." 

Colburn  turned  toward  her.  "Why  should 
we  talk  of  a  pretty  person  when  we  can  talk  of 
real  things,  even  if  they  are  not  pretty?"  He 
made  an  impatient  movement  with  his  hand. 
"I've  little  understanding  of  or  sympathy  with 
this  modern  theory  that  we  must  smirk  and 
smile  through  life  and  shut  our  eyes  to  pain 
and  ugliness.  I  don't  believe  in  it.  If  there's 
ugliness,  look  at  it  and  get  rid  of  it  if  possible, 
but  don't  pretend  it  isn't  there.  There  aren't 
many  people  one  can  talk  with  intelligently, 
and  if  you  and  I  feel — "  He  hesitated,  and  in 
his  face  color  crept  slowly.  "What's  the  use  of 
dodging,  Miss  Laird?  We're  up  against  some- 
thing that's  pretty  cruel,  something  we  hate." 

"And  in  all  human  history  hate  has  never 
helped.  We've  got  to  cut  it  out." 

"And  learn  to  love  it — the  condition  in  which 
we  find  ourselves?"  His  voice  was  ironic. 

77 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"To  love  it?"  She  shook  her  head.  "Hardly. 
To  use  it,  perhaps."  She  waved  her  hand 
to  the  boy  ahead.  "There's  the  creek,  and 
Cricket  is  beckoning  us  to  hurry.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  know  anything  at  all  about  fishing,  or 
you'd  be  more  excited.  Look  at  Cricket !  He's 
exuberance  in  the  flesh.  You — you're  much 
too  old,  Mr.  Colburn— " 

Again  waving  her  hand,  with  a  laugh  she 
left  him  and  hurried  ahead  to  where  Cricket 
was  waiting  and,  emptying  her  pockets  of 
certain  possessions,  began  to  make  ready  for 
the  morning's  sport.  Overhead  the  sun  daz- 
zled, and  on  the  water,  lazily  making  its  way  to 
the  lake  half  a  mile  distant,  it  gleamed  and 
sparkled  in  a  path  that  followed  the  banks, 
thick  with  shrubs  and  trees  and  rocks  of  varying 
size;  and  as  he  watched  her  Colburn  wondered 
if  she  knew  how  perfectly  she  was  a  part  of  the 
setting,  and  thought  of  ill  health  seemed  sud- 
denly absurd. 

Her  movements  were  swift  and  graceful,  and 
in  her  short  cloth  skirt  and  buttoned  boots,  her 
white  sweater  and  soft  hat,  under  which  her 
black  hair  shone  in  the  sunlight,  she  was  so 
strong  a  contrast  to  the  woman  she  had  been 
the  night  before  that  the  change  puzzled  him. 
He  had  gone  in  for  a  few  moments  to  some  sort 
78 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

of  a  party  given  by  one  of  the  guests  to  certain 
of  the  other  guests,  and  so  easily  had  she  dom- 
inated it  by  a  certain  vividness  and  compelling 
radiance  that  the  other  women  had  been  faded 
and  colorless  beside  her,  and  there  had  been 
swift  thought  that  surely  she  was  born  to  reign. 
To-day  she  was  but  Cricket's  comrade,  a  girl 
only,  glad  and  joyous  and  frankly  happy  at  the 
prospect  ahead. 

Out  of  the  tin  can  bait  was  taken  and  hooks 
made  ready,  and  in  a  sheltered  place,  close  to 
some  good -sized  rocks,  the  book  and  lunch 
basket  were  carefully  stored.  Bits  of  wood 
and  broken  branches  of  trees  were  next  gath- 
ered for  the  fire  to  be  made  when  lunch-time 
should  arrive  and  the  fish  caught  be  consumed 
by  appetites  active  and  unashamed;  and  then 
Cricket,  who  had  been  busy,  turned  to  the  man 
who  had  been  watching. 

"Want  to  go  with  me  to  the  spring?" 

Colburn  nodded.  "Anything  I  can  take 
along?" 

"Nothing  to  take,  but  something  to  bring. 
If  I  show  you  what  'tis  you  won't  tell,  will 
you?" 

The  promise  made,  Cricket  turned  to  the  right 
and  up  the  slight  incline  and  beckoned  myste- 
riously. "This  way,"  he  said,  and  looked  cau- 

79 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

tiously  in  front  and  behind.  "We  had  to  hide 
the  things  on  account  of  thieves.  There  are  a 
lot  of  thieves  in  this  world  who  don't  know 
they're  thieves.  Those  Simmons  boys  go  to 
Sunday-school  regular  as  Sunday  is  Sunday,  and 
they're  damn  rascals,  that's  what  they  are. 
They  stole  our  first  water-bucket  and  sauce- 
pan, so  we  had  to  hide  the  new  ones.  Miss 
Taska  bought  the  things  from  the  store,  and 
somebody  is  going  to  get  licked  if  they're  ever 
gone  again.  I  ain't  going  to  ask  who  took  'em, 
but  the  Simmons  boys  will  get  the  licking." 
He  stopped  and  turned  to  the  man  following 
behind  in  the  tiny  path  too  narrow  for  both 
to  walk  abreast.  "Didn't  I  say  'damn'  just 
now?" 

Colburn  stopped  also.  "I  think  you  did. 
I  wasn't  noticing  very  carefully,  but — 

"I  said  it."  Slowly  the  piece  of  string 
around  the  boy's  neck  was  taken  off  and  slowly 
another  knot  was  tied  in  it.  "That  makes 
twice  this  morning,  and  it's  two  pages  now 
instead  of  one." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and  in  the 
boy's  head  bent  over  the  string  there  was  hint 
of  dejection,  but  in  a  moment  it  was  raised  and 
the  frank  eyes  looked  into  Colburn's. 

"If  I  keep  on  like  this  there  won't  be  much 
80 


A    FISHING    PARTY 

of  Huck  Finn  to-day,  will  there?"  he  asked,  and 
the  string  was  put  in  place.  "Page  a  word  is 
what  they  cost  me,  and  they're  out  before  I 
know  they're  coming.  Ever  have  any  trouble 
that  way?" 

"What  way?" 

"Using  language  what  ain't  Christian?" 

"There  have  been  times."  Colburn's  voice 
was  slightly  evasive. 

"Most  all  the  time  with  me."  Cricket's 
voice  was  unembarrassed.  "You  see,  it's  this 
way."  Stooping,  he  picked  up  a  pebble  and, 
swinging  back  his  arm,  threw  it  at  the  topmost 
branch  of  a  tall  pine  tree.  "I'm  talking  about 
things  and  people,  and  I  call  'em  names  without 
remembering  I  oughtn't,  and  because  there  is  a 
difference  in  pigs  and  people — ain't  it  ? — and  then 
when  it's  out  I  can't  get  it  back.  Miss  Taska 
and  Teenie  don't  like  it,  and  I  don't  reckon  my 
mother  would,  either,  and  if  I  knew  I  was  go- 
ing to  do  it  I  wouldn't — that  is,  sometimes  I 
wouldn't,  but  sometimes  I  would.  Kinder  lets 
out  something  inside  to  call  things  by  the  right 
name.  Here's  the  place." 

Kicking  away  a  tree-trunk,  Cricket  pushed 

back  the  brush  on  top  of  a  box  sunk  in  the 

ground  and,  dropping  on  his  knees,  took  off  the 

top  and  one  by  one  handed  the  tin  utensils 

8z 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

therein  to  Colburn;  then,  getting  up,  covered 
the  hole  carefully. 

"The  spring  ain't  far  from  here" — again  he 
looked  around — "but  neither  is  the  Simmonses' 
house,  and  I  don't  want  anybody  to  see  us.  If 
we  go  this  way  they  won't."  And,  taking  the 
bucket  in  his  right  hand,  he  swung  it  at  arms'- 
length  backward  and  forward  until  the  spring 
was  reached.  Filling  it,  he  put  the  one  knife, 
two  forks,  and  two  spoons  in  his  pockets,  and 
cautioning  Colburn  to  be  careful  with  the  sauce- 
pan, which  had  in  it  the  cups  and  saucers  and 
plates,  he  hooked  the  coffee-pot  to  a  button  on 
his  coat  and  started  whistling  down  the  hill. 

"Give  it  to  me."  The  bucket  of  water  was 
taken  out  of  his  hand,  and  with  a  quick  stride 
Colburn  led  the  way  to  where  Taska  was  wait- 
ing on  the  banks  of  the  water  whose  gay  gleam- 
ing could  be  seen  through  the  open  spaces 
among  the  trees. 


VII 

A   DOUBLE   PLUNGE 

FOR  two  hours  fair  luck  was  with  them, 
and  in  the  battered  tin  bucket  at  Cricket's 
feet  a  number  of  small  fish  flopped  and  floun- 
dered in  protest  at  their  cramped  quarters,  and, 
leaning  over,  he  peered  at  them  with  pride  that 
was  joyous  and  unreserved. 

"Twenty -three,  I  think,"  he  said,  and,  put- 
ting in  his  hand,  drew  out  a  tiny  speckled 
trout  whose  shining  armor  compensated  for 
its  lack  of  size,  and  held  it  up  in  the  sun- 
light. 

"That's  what  you  call  a  beaut,  ain't  it?" 
The  wriggling,  squirming,  fighting  little  fish 
was  held  first  toward  Taska  and  then  toward 
Colburn.  "Would  you  all  mind  if  I  took  this 
one  to  Teenie  ?  It's  such  a  pretty  one,  and  she's 
awful  fond  of  pretty  things." 

"You  can  take  a  dozen  to  her.  String  her  a 
bunch  of  the  biggest,  and  we'll  cook  the  rest. 
What  time  is  it?"  Taska  looked  at  Colburn. 

83 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"Something  tells  me  it  is  lunch -time.  I'm 
hungry  as  a  bear." 

Colburn  looked  at  his  watch.  "Half  past 
twelve.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hound,  and 
Cricket's  as  hungry  as  a — " 

"Pig."  One  by  one  Cricket  picked  out  the 
fish  and  strung  them  carefully.  "Pigs  are 
always  hungry,  sometimes  hungrier.  Ain't 
that  a  dandy?"  The  string  of  fish  held  in  the 
sunlight  flashed  glints  of  rainbow  colors  in  their 
faces.  ' '  They  ain't  the  biggest,  though.  Teenie 
wouldn't  want  the  biggest.  Must  I  pull  back, 
Miss  Taska?" 

"I'll  pull  back."  Slipping  the  oars  into  the 
rowlocks,  Colburn  dipped  them  in  the  water, 
and  with  an  awkward  and  then  smooth  stroke 
pulled  easily  down  the  stream  to  where  their 
lunch  was  waiting.  As  he  rowed  color  which 
had  long  been  lacking  in  his  face  came  grad- 
ually into  it,  and  at  Cricket's  questioning  look 
he  laughed  slightly. 

"At  college  I  belonged  to  the  boat  crew,  and 
later  at  the  boat  club  I  kept  up  practice  for 
exercise,  but  it's  been  years  since  I've  had  a 
pair  of  oars  in  my  hands."  Swinging  the  boat 
into  place,  he  steadied  it  as  Cricket  jumped  out 
and  pushed  it  on  the  bank  that  Taska  might 
not  dampen  her  shoes,  then  made  it  fast  to  the 
84 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

stake  and  followed  her  to  the  big  rock,  where 
already  Cricket  had  lighted  the  fire  and  was 
filling  the  coffee-pot  with  the  water  brought 
from  the  spring. 

"You'll  have  to  eat  with  your  fingers, 
Cricket." 

Spreading  a  large  linen  napkin  on  the  grayish 
grass,  Taska  put  on  it  the  two  cups  and  saucers, 
and  knife  and  forks  and  spoons,  and  opened 
carefully  a  small  package  of  sugar.  "We  were 
very  stingy,  Cricket  and  I,  when  we  bought 
our  things" — she  turned  to  Colburn — "but  we 
didn't  expect  to  have  guests  when  we  made 
our  purchases.  At  the  San  few  of  the  people 
care  to  take  exercise,  and  our  primitive  pleas- 
ures wouldn't  appeal,  so  we  only  got  enough 
for  ourselves.  Where's  the  pie,  Cricket?" 

"Here  'tis." 

With  a  long,  luxurious  indrawing  of  his 
breath  Cricket  reached  behind  and  drew  from 
under  a  branch  of  brown  and  russet  leaves  a 
good-sized  pie,  and  with  a  tight  closing  of  his 
left  eye  and  a  tilt  of  his  chin  he  nodded  at 
Colburn  and  held  it  toward  him. 

"Miss  Taska  don't  eat  pie,  but  I  never  saw 

a  man  what  didn't  eat  it.     Ain't  but  one  kind 

of  pie  I  don't  like,  and  that's  a  thin  pie.     This 

is  just  for  you  and  me,  and  we  don't  have  to 

7  &S 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

leave  any  for  manners.  Gee,  I'm  hungry!  I 
don't  mind  eating  with  my  fingers,  and  I  can 
drink  my  coffee  out  of  the  dipper  if  you  all  don't 
mind.  When  you're  empty  as  air  it  don't  make 
much  difference  how  you  get  the  things  to  your 
mouth.  I  mean  outdoors  it  don't  make  much 
difference.  Are  you  'most  ready,  Miss  Taska?" 

It  was  a  merry  meal.  For  half  an  hour  there 
was  uninterrupted  effort  to  appease  the  demand 
of  open-air  appetites,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  Baywood  had  been  entered  the  taste  of 
food  was  good  to  Colburn.  With  it  all  was  a 
curious  naturalness,  as  if  so  informal  a  lunch 
were  an  every-day  affair;  and  with  surrender 
to  a  nameless  something  that  was  strangely 
pleasant  he  ate  as  he  had  not  eaten  for  weeks, 
and  even  months,  before. 

The  last  bit  of  pie  in  Cricket's  hand  was 
looked  at  doubtfully  and  then  put  in  his  mouth. 
"Guess  I  can  squeeze  that  in,  but  I  couldn't 
another  piece  if  it  weren't  any  bigger  than  a 
pin-point.  I'm  as  full  as  a  tick,  and.  Lord,  I'm 
happy!" 

With  a  twist  of  his  body  he  stretched  out  on 
his  back  and  blinked  up  at  the  sun.  "Ain't 
you  glad  you're  living?"  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  Colburn.  "I  ain't  going  to  be  glad  at 
five  o'clock,  which  is  when  I'll  be  milking,  but 
86 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

'tain't  any  reason  why  you  can't  be  glad  some- 
time just  because  you  can't  be  all  the  time. 
Mis'  Lemmon  don't  see  it  that  way.  She  was 
born  doleful,  and  doleful  she'll  die,  and  all  on 
account  of  maybes.  Ever  know  a  maybe 
person,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

"  Don't  know  that  I  have.  I'm  not  sure  that 
I  know  what  kind  of  a  person  a  maybe  person 
is." 

"A  maybe-er  is  a  female  person  generally. 
That  is,  all  I  know  are  females,  though  a  lot  of 
ladies  ain't  and  some  men  are.  Miss  Taska 
ain't.  They're  this  kind."  Hands  clasped  un- 
der his  head  and  knees  up,  Cricket  eyed  a  bird 
that  was  sailing  across  the  sky.  "If  that  bird 
was  a  thinker  and  could  think  it  might  think 
like  this :  Maybe  there's  a  man  down  there  with 
a  gun,  and  maybe  he  is  going  to  shoot  and  I'd 
better  not  fly  round  to-day.  That's  Mis' 
Lemmon.  She's  always  thinking  something  is 
going  to  happen.  If  it  rains  maybe  the  crops 
will  rot,  and  if  it's  dry  maybe  there'll  be  a 
drought,  and  every  time  a  calf  or  a  pig  or  a 
lamb  or  a  baby  gets  born  she  thinks  maybe 
it  will  die  before  it's  grown  up.  And  she's 
afraid  to  put  her  money  in  the  bank  for  fear 
it  may  be  stolen,  and  if  you've  got  a  pain  in  the 
back  of  your  neck  she  always  says  it  may  be 

87 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

that  appendix  thing.  She's  cheerful  nix,  she  is ! 
Regular  mushroom  kind.  Only  thing  that  ever 
flourishes  in  damp  and  darkness  is  mushrooms, 
I  read  in  a  book  once,  but  the  man  who  wrote  it 
didn't  know  Mis'  Lemmon.  If  she  can  squint 
hard  luck  out  of  a  happening  she'll  squint  before 
it  starts  to  come,  and  she's  disappointed  if  it 
don't.  Her  husbands  died.  Hold  on,  Miss 
Taska!" 

Springing  to  his  feet,  Cricket  began  to  help 
Taska  gather  up  the  china  and  wash  it,  and  a 
few  minutes  later,  all  things  being  again  in 
order  and  the  fire  replenished,  the  book  was 
brought  and  put  in  Taska's  hands. 

"Mr.  Colburn  doesn't  know  Mrs.  Lemmon, 
Cricket."  Taska  spread  out  the  rain-coat,  al- 
ways brought  for  possible  need,  and  settled 
herself  comfortably  on  the  ground,  back  against 
the  rock  and  book  in  her  lap.  "The  other  day 
you  told  me  it  wasn't  square  to  talk  about 
people  behind  their  backs." 

"It  ain't.  But  I've  said  it  to  her  face — what 
I  said  to  him."  His  hand  was  waved  in  Col- 
burn's  direction.  "She  sent  me  to  bed  for  it 
and  said  the  Lord  had  made  her  that  way,  and 
if  it  was  the  will  of  the  Lord  for  her  to  be  mis- 
trusting she  wasn't  a-going  contrary  to  His  will. 
She  says  she  don't  believe  in  shutting  your  eyes 
88 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

to  evil  and  danger  and  death.  She's  terrible 
afraid  of  death  and  always  looking  out  for  it. 
You  know  yourself  she's  got  the  damnedest 
good  sight  for  dark-sidedness  that — " 

"Cricket!" 

"Three  times  to-day!"  Three  fingers  were 
held  up  in  the  air,  then  slowly  the  third  knot 
was  tied.  "Not  a  word  for  a  week  and  all  at 
once  broke  out  like  the  measles.  What  you 
reckon  makes  me  do  it,  Miss  Taska?  Couldn't 
be  the  will  of  the  Lord,  could  it?" 

"I  think  not." 

String  still  in  his  hands,  Cricket  looked  at 
the  three  knots  reflectingly.  "Mis'  Lemmon 
lays  so  much  on  the  will  of  the  Lord  that  I 
thought  maybe  He  might  have  made  me  this 
way  for  a  purpose.  Don't  see  how  anything 
could  be  made  out  of  it  lessen  it  was  holding 
back  what  you  want  to  let  out,  but — " 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  pres- 
ently, hands  in  his  pockets,  Cricket  looked  up. 

' '  I  don't  reckon  you'd  better  read  any  to-day, 
Miss  Taska.  The  last  time  was  about  a  lady. 
I  thought  I  was  coming  on,  but  I  ain't,  and 
'tain't  any  use  trying.  I  was  lowed  to  do  it 
when  I  was  little ;  my  father  'lowed  me  and  used 
to  laugh,  and  it's  too  late  now."  His  lips 
twitched,  and,  turning  away,  he  looked  over 

89 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

the  water  to  the  opposite  bank.  "It's  too 
late." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  Taska  opened  the  book 
and  spread  it  on  her  lap.  "You've  done  better 
than  I  have,  and  we're  going  to  read  this  morn- 
ing with  five  pages  cut  out.  Cricket  and  I 
made  a  bargain."  She  turned  to  Colburn  and 
laughed  lightly.  "I  had  a  habit  of  thinking 
about  things  it  didn't  help  to  think  about,  and 
he  had  one  of  using  certain  words  there  was  no 
need  of  using.  We  agreed  to  break  our  bad 
habits.  We're  getting  along,  but  we  have  a  set- 
back every  now  and  then.  If  you  don't  care  to 
listen  we  won't  mind  if  you  go  for  a  walk." 

"I'd  like  to  listen." 

Stretched  on  the  dry  grass,  chin  in  his  hand 
and  elbow  on  the  ground,  Colburn  settled  him- 
self some  little  distance  from  the  rock  against 
which  Taska  was  leaning,  and  close  to  which,  at 
her  feet,  Cricket  was  lying  face  forward,  heels 
in  the  air,  and  eyes  eagerly  watching  those  bent 
over  the  well-used  copy  of  Huckleberry  Finn. 
He  did  not  listen,  however,  for  as  the  words  of 
the  opening  chapter  reached  him  pictures  of 
very  different  scenes  came  before  him  discon- 
nectedly, and  the  one  in  which  he  found  himself 
seemed  the  only  one  that  was  definite  or  de- 
cided or  desirable.  It  might  never  happen 
90 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

again,  a  morning  of  so  simple  and  natural  and 
wholesome  pleasuring,  and  he  wondered  that  it 
should  have  happened  to-day. 

Changing  his  position  slightly,  he  looked  at 
the  girl,  who  had  apparently  forgotten  his 
presence,  and  for  some  minutes  let  his  eyes  take 
in  the  contour  of  the  oval  face,  the  long  lashes 
covering  the  gray  eyes,  around  whose  pupils 
were  the  deep,  dark  circles  which  gave  them  at 
times  appealing  and  again  most  baffling  charm, 
and  most  of  all  he  watched  her  mouth,  full- 
lipped  and  sweet,  and  of  a  modeling  that  gave 
to  its  sweetness  strength. 

For  some  time  thought  was  held  in  abeyance, 
and  then  he  tried  to  imagine  Isabel  McLean 
in  her  place.  He  could  not  think  of  Isabel 
as  reading  aloud.  She  was  not  fond  of  reading, 
and,  though  he  had  the  new  novels  sent  to  her, 
it  rarely  happened  that  she  mentioned  a  writer 
he  cared  for;  those  she  did  mention  he  knew 
only  as  writers  to  avoid. 

Nor  could  he  imagine  her  in  a  sweater  and 
leaning  against  a  rock.  Isabel  never  leaned. 
She  was  too  stately,  too  perfectly  groomed  and 
gowned  to  sit  on  the  grass,  and  no  combination 
could  be  more  incongruous  than  the  freckle- 
faced,  clear-eyed,  happy-hearted  boy  and  Isabel 
McLean.  He  liked  that  chap.  Pity  he  couldn't 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

get  the  proper  education.  He  was  a  keen  ob- 
server for  his  years,  and  his  comments  clear- 
cut  for  a  youngster.  Miss  Laird  was  ob- 
viously his  divinity. 

The  book  was  closed  suddenly.  "I  forgot 
what  I  was  doing!  I  only  left  out  four  pages 
instead  of  five."  Taska  made  effort  to  get  up, 
but  Cricket  was  holding  her  down  in  frantic, 
abject  appeal. 

"Oh,  don't,  don't  stop  yet!"  His  face  was 
buried  in  her  lap.  "Don't  leave  off  just  when 
I  couldn't  sleep  a  wink  if  I  didn't  know  how  it 
ended!  You  ain't  ever  been  a  boy,  and  you 
don't  know  how  hard  it  is  to  talk  like  a  lady 
all  the  time;  and  if  you'll  just  finish  that 
chapter — " 

"Wish  I  could,  but  I  can't.  A  broken  bar- 
gain gets  what  it  deserves,  and  deserves  what 
it  gets.  If  we're  going  on  the  lake  we  must 
hurry."  This  time  Taska  was  up.  "We've 
got  to  be  back  at  the  San  by  three  o'clock." 

On  his  feet  Cricket  turned  his  back  and 
ran  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  across  his  face  and 
swallowed  with  difficulty.  Presently  he  turned 
again  and  nodded  to  Colburn.  "I'm  going 
back  to  the  box,"  he  said,  "to  take  the  things. 
Want  to  go?" 

92 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

On  the  lake  luck  deserted  them,  and  after 
half  an  hour  of  patient  waiting  Cricket  pulled 
up  his  line  and  put  it  in  the  boat. 

"It's  too  deep  here,"  he  said;  "never  could 
do  anything  right  in  the  middle.  Over  yonder 
is  where  the  biggest  fish  Mr.  Snowden  ever  got 
came  from.  He  told  me  so  himself.  Reckon 
we'd  better  try  it?" 

' '  Better  try  something.  Be  careful,  Cricket !" 
Taska's  hand  was  held  out  warningly.  "You 
mustn't  stand  up,  the  boat  is  too  small!" 

Already  Cricket  was  up,  however,  and  as  he 
started  toward  the  seat  where  he  could  take  the 
oars  from  the  side  of  the  boat  and  put  them  in 
the  locks  his  foot  slipped.  With  a  lurch  he  fell 
forward.  Colburn's  hand  swung  out  to  catch 
him,  but  a  splash  in  the  water  told  him  he 
was  too  late,  and  instantly  he  was  on  his  feet 
and  coat  and  vest  thrown  off. 

' '  Oh,  God !"  Taska,  too,  was  up.  ' '  Look  at 
that!" 

On  the  blade  of  the  oar  a  few  drops  of  blood 
gleamed  in  the  sunlight.  "He  struck  himself 
in  falling."  And  again  the  waters  closed  and 
Colburn,  too,  was  out  of  sight. 

For  a  black  moment,  two  moments,  there 
was  stillness,  horrible  stillness,  and  with  wide 
eyes  Taska  watched  the  surface  of  the  water. 
93 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

On  it  Cricket's  cap  floated  shoreward,  and  tow- 
ard her  Colburn's  hat  came  close  enough  to 
be  drawn  in.  Wet  and  dripping,  she  held  it 
with  tense  tightness,  and  the  beating  of  her 
heart  seemed  to  stop. 

Why  didn't  they  come  up?  Cricket  was  a 
good  swimmer,  but  if  he  were  stunned!  Could 
Colburn  find  him?  It  might  mean  Colburn's 
death,  a  plunge  in  water  on  such  a  day  as  this ! 
And  she  had  asked  him  to  come!  Her  hands 
dug  into  each  other,  but  her  lips  made  no 
sound,  and  only  the  gleaming  sunlight  broke 
the  smooth  surface  of  the  lake. 

If  in  a  moment  more  they  did  not  come  up 
she  must  pull  to  the  shore  and  get  help.  The 
nearest  house  was  the  Simmonses'.  She  would 
have  to  go  back  to  the  place  they  had  just  left. 
For  a  swift  second  she  closed  her  eyes,  and 
wordless  prayer  surged  over  her;  then  again  she 
looked  upon  the  water. 

"Pretty  long  in  finding  him,  wasn't  I?" 

With  a  steady  stroke  of  his  right  arm  Colburn 
was  swimming  toward  the  boat.  Under  his  left, 
Cricket,  still  unconscious,  was  held  firmly,  and 
as  he  reached  her  the  girl  on  her  knees  held  out 
her  arms. 

"Give  him  to  me,"  she  said,  and,  the  hold  on 
herself  loosening,  a  half -sob  came  from  her  lips. 
94 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

Pulling  the  boy  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
she  turned  to  Colburn.  "Are  you — are  you  all 
right?"  she  asked.  "Can  you  get  in?" 

It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  but  the  tricks 
of  early  days  came  to  him,  and  with  a  swift 
movement  Colburn  was  in  the  boat  again,  and 
quickly  his  hands  were  on  the  oars. 

"The  nearest  place,"  he  said;  "where  is  it?" 

"The  one  we  came  from.  You  must  let  me 
row.  You  are  too  tired,  and  you  will  be  ill  and 
frozen.  Oh,  why— 

"I'll  be  frozen  if  I  don't  row.  It  will  only 
take  a  few  minutes.  He'll  be  all  right  when  we 
get  him  on  shore.  Throw  that  coat  over  him, 
will  you?  The  wind  is  pretty  strong.  Place 
his  head  a  little  lower  than  his  feet." 

Leaning  forward,  she  handed  the  coat  to  Col- 
burn as  the  oars  were  put  in  the  water.  "Put 
this  on  before  you  start."  Her  voice  was  still  a 
bit  unsteady.  With  her  rain-coat  she  wrapped 
the  child  carefully.  As  his  eyes  slowly  opened 
she  caught  his  hands  and  held  them  to  her 
heart.  "Oh,  Cricket!  Cricket!" 

Dazedly  the  boy  made  effort  to  rise.  With 
swift,  long  strokes  the  boat  was  shooting  over 
the  water,  and  already  their  lunching-ground 
and  the  smoldering  fire  could  be  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  unsteadily  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

95 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"What  'd  I  do  this  time,  Miss  Taska?" 

His  head  fell  back  into  her  lap,  and  dizzy 
faintness  closed  his  eyes  again.  Bending,  she 
wiped  his  face  with  her  handkerchief,  rubbed  his 
hands,  then,  lifting  her  eyes,  found  Colburn's  on 
her,  and  in  them  read  his  understanding  that  her 
thought  was  for  the  boy  alone,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment swift  color  filled  her  face. 

"I  can't  thank  you!  I  can't  breathe  quite 
well  yet."  Her  voice  broke,  and  she  looked 
away.  ' '  We  do  not  often  go  upon  the  lake.  He 
can't  keep  still,  and  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  to- 
day. A  month  ago  I  promised  that  next  time 
we'd  try  the  lake,  but  I  oughtn't  to  have 
promised.  It  is  all  my  fault — and  you  may 
be  ill!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  ill,  and  you  are  not  a 
maybe  person.  Cricket  told  me  so  an  hour 
ago.  I  take  a  cold  bath  every  day;  an  extra 
one  won't  hurt.  Take  care!" 

The  boat  grated  on  the  bank,  and,  springing 
out,  Colburn  pulled  it  up  and  held  his  hand  to 
Taska.  "Run  up  and  fix  the  fire,"  he  said. 
'Til  bring  Cricket." 

With  the  boy  in  his  arms  he  started  to  the 
rock  near  which  the  fire  was  burning  vigorously 
again,  but  at  the  first  few  steps  Cricket  opened 
his  eyes  and  tried  to  get  upon  his  feet. 

96 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

"I'm  all  right."  This  time  his  gaze  was  no 
longer  bewildered.  "Put  me  down,  please,  Mr. 
Colburn.  Oh,  please  put  me  down!  They 
don't  let  Tubers  tote  anything,  and  I've  done 
enough  damage  to-day.  Please — you  must — 
you've  got  to!"  And  so  violent  were  his  efforts 
to  release  himself  from  Colburn's  arms  that  the 
latter  had  to  hold  him  with  a  grip  unduly 
tight. 

"In  a  minute  I'll  put  you  down.  We're  not 
there  yet." 

"But  you  may  spit  a  ruby.  Tubers  do  when 
they're  tired,  Mis'  Lemmon  says.  Ain't  I 
done  enough  to  -  day  ?  You  may  be  sick 
if—" 

"Who's  a  maybe-er  now?  Get  up  close  to 
that  fire  and  dry  out.  You'll  be  cooked  in  a 
few  minutes  if  you  can  stand  the  heat.  I'm 
all  right  except  my  feet.  They're  a  bit  chilly. 
Where's  Miss  Laird?" 

Already  out  of  sight,  Taska  was  running  to 
the  Simmons  house,  and  in  a  time  incredibly 
short  even  to  the  shivering  man  and  boy  they 
saw  her  hurrying  back,  and  with  her  Mrs.  Sim- 
mons. In  their  hands  were  blankets  and  bottles, 
and  behind  were  the  Simmons  boys,  between 
them  a  big  kettle  of  hot  water,  and  in  their 
eyes  eager  excitement  at  the  orders  which  had 

97 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

been  given  them  to  take  it  from  the  kitchen 
stove  and  come  at  once,  and  that  quickly. 

Cricket,  still  close  to  the  fire,  eyed  the  kettle 
contemptuously.  "Leaks,"  he  said  to  Colburn. 
"Simmonses  always  were  shiftless.  Miss  Tas- 
ka's  face's  as  white  as  my  nest-egg.  You'd 
better  get  her  back  quick,  Mr.  Colburn.  She 
ain't  strong  enough  to  run  like  that,  and  she's 
out  of  breath.  O  Lord,  to  think  I  done  it! 
I'd  be  drownded  like  my  mother  and  father  if 
'twarn't  for  you,  and  you  may  be  dead  on 
account  of  me,  and  I  ain't  worth  it!  I  ain't 
worth  it!  I  ain't  got  any  blood  kin,  and  you 
and  her  got  so  many  to  care,  and  there  ain't 
anybody  to  care  'bout  me!" 

Reaction  had  set  in;  and,  throwing  himself 
face  forward  on  the  ground,  stifling  sobs  came 
from  the  lips  pressed  shamedly  together  to  keep 
back  sound;  and,  stooping,  Colburn  put  his 
hand  on  the  shaking  shoulders. 

''I'd  have  cared,  Cricket.  I'd  have  cared 
very  much.  I  think  we're  going  to  be  good 
friends.  And  Miss  Laird  would  have  cared 
more  than  you  understand.  Quick!  Get  up! 
She's  coming!" 

Turning  slowly,  Cricket    sat   up   and  with 
the  end  of  the  rain -coat  in  which  he  was 
wrapped  he  wiped  his  eyes. 
98 


A    DOUBLE    PLUNGE 

"  'Twas  my  damned  wriggling  what  did  it." 
He  stopped,  and  again  his  eyes  filled.  "Four 
times  to-day,"  he  said,  dejectedly,  "and  I 
might  be  in  hell  this  minute  for  it  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you!" 


VIII 

LETTERS 

COLBURN  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
the  two  people  crossing  the  lawn  as  long 
as  they  were  in  sight,  then  took  up  his  letters 
and  began  to  open  them. 

It  was  extremely  silly,  his  being  kept  a 
prisoner  on  the  veranda  of  his  cottage;  and 
were  it  not  for  the  note  in  his  pocket  and  the 
fleeting,  indefinable  appeal  which  had  passed, 
as  a  shadow  passes,  over  Miss  Laird's  face 
when  yesterday  she  had  stopped  and  spoken 
to  him  as  he  lay  rug-covered  in  his  long  chair, 
he  would  have  gone  to  his  meals  as  usual  and 
stopped  this  nonsense  which  the  Doctor  was 
enforcing.  The  indications  were  he  was  going 
to  detest  the  Doctor  as  heartily  as  Holman 
hated  him.  An  un-get-rid-able  antipathy  to  a 
soft  voice  in  a  man,  together  with  the  feeling 
that  he  was  being  figuratively  patted  whenever 
he  appeared,  made  his  coming  something  from 
which  he  shrank  with  peculiar  aversion,  and 

100 


LETTERS 

for  the  past  three  days  there  had  been  occasion 
to  shrink  with  irritating  regularity. 

Taking  a  letter  from  its  envelope,  he  put  on 
his  glasses  and  began  to  read,  then  put  it  down 
and  tapped  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  long, 
slender  fingers.  The  letter  was  from  Ralstone 
in  regard  to  the  Colesworth  house.  Certainly  it 
had  not  increased  in  value  during  the  past  few 
months,  and  yet  Ralstone  wrote  the  best  terms 
he  could  make  were  several  thousand  dollars 
in  advance  of  what  the  property  had  been 
offered  him  before  he  was  taken  sick.  Strange — 
He  threw  the  letter  on  the  table.  There  was 
no  hurry  in  regard  to  its  answer,  and  the  day 
was  too  perfect  to  bother  with  things  of  this  kind. 

"Hello,  there!" 

Colburn  looked  up.  Harnish  and  Holman 
were  crossing  the  lawn,  and  as  they  neared  his 
cottage  they  waved  their  hands.  Both  were 
in  riding  -  clothes,  and  for  a  moment  envy 
possessed  him. 

"Where  to?"  he  asked,  and  leaned  forward 
with  interest.  "Good  rides  about  here?" 

"Bully."  Harnish  tapped  the  tip  of  his  boot 
with  the  butt  end  of  his  crop.  "Wish  you 
could  go.  Miss  Laird's  going.  Holman  hates 
a  horse,  but  he's  learning  to  take  what  he  can 
get.  Any  tern,  to-day?" 
8  101 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"Believe  not."  Colburn  leaned  back.  "Never 
has  been  any  worth  noticing." 

"Merely  precautionary,  my  friend,  merely 
precautionary!"  Holman's  voice  was  in  exact 
imitation  of  the  Doctor's.  "If  pneumonia  had 
only  developed  you'd  have  been  immortalized. 
No  bad  effects  from  a  cold  plunge  to  save  an  un- 
known chappie  is  disappointing  to  hero-worship- 
ers. Miss  Warriner  weeps  when  she  thinks  of  what 
might  have  happened.  Coming  out  to-night?" 

"Hope  to.  It's  all  rot,  this  sort  of  thing." 
Colburn's  eyes  lifted,  and  again  he  watched  the 
couple  he  had  seen  passing  a  few  minutes  before ; 
and,  turning,  Holman  saw  them  also. 

For  a  moment  his  eyes  narrowed,  then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  infinite  variety 
of  fools  in  this  world  is  equaled  only  by  the 
infinite  variety  of  their  combinations.  Some- 
body ought  to  kill  that  man." 

"She's  a  pretty  little  thing."  Harnish 
turned  and  followed  the  couple  with  puzzled 
eyes.  "Her  husband's  worth  a  good  many 
millions,  and  there  are  two  children.  What 
on  earth  she  sees  in  him — 

"Sees  what  she's  never  seen  before."  Hol- 
man brushed  a  speck  off  his  doeskin  trousers. 
"His  mind  is  the  most  brilliant  I've  ever  come 
across,  and  his  soul  the  size  of  a  black-eyed  pea. 
102 


LETTERS 

He's  been  everywhere,  studied  everything,  and 
cares  no  more  for  law  and  order  than  he  cares 
for  last  year's  calendars.  Looks  like  a  country 
bumpkin  one  minute  and  a  poet  another,  with 
his  careless  dress  and  burning  eyes.  Hello! 
There's  Miss  Laird!" 

A  moment  later  as  they  passed  down  the  road 
Colburn  lifted  his  hat  in  answer  to  the  wave  of 
Taska's  hand  and  watched  her  until  out  of 
sight.  She  had  a  good  mount  and  rode  well, 
but  a  habit  was  hardly  becoming  to  a  woman 
of  her  type.  She  was  too  tall  and  slender. 
Still,  in  it,  as  in  everything  else,  she  was  dis- 
tinctive. Apparently,  she  did  not  care  greatly 
for  clothes,  and  at  times  they  seemed  to  have 
been  put  on  in  a  hurry,  yet  even  carelessness 
could  not  make  her  commonplace.  In  each 
costume  she  was  a  different  personality.  Pic- 
tures of  her  passed  before  him.  Brilliant  and 
bizarre,  an  evening  gown  of  deep  red  and  dull 
gold  made  her  one  person,  the  sweater  and 
buttoned  boots  another,  and  now  this  habit, 
but  best  of  all  he  liked  her  in  the  simple  dark- 
blue  dress  in  which  he  had  first  seen  her  and  in 
which  in  his  dream  she  had  come  to  him  and 
made  the  pain  grow  less.  He  wished—  With 
an  impatient  frown  he  took  up  the  letter 
from  Isabel  McLean  and  began  to  read  it. 
103 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

MY  DEAR  RIVES, — I  am  glad  to  know  from  your  letter 
of  yesterday  that  you  are  better  satisfied  with  Baywood. 
From  your  first  letters  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  be 
willing  to  stay,  and  Mrs.  Macomber  says  you  would  make 
a  mistake  to  go  anywhere  else.  She  made  some  valuable 
acquaintances  there.  All  the  people  she  met  were  of 
prominent  families,  and  it  is  most  unfortunate  if  one 
has  to  be  thrown  with  people  one  does  not  care  to  know. 
I  hope  the  winter  months  will  pass  quickly.  If  you 
improve  as  rapidly  as  Dr.  Masters  expects,  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  come  home  in  the  spring  and  take  up  things 
again.  Of  course,  it  is  very  awkward  for  me.  Mother 
insists  that  nothing  shall  be  said  about  our  engagement. 
Its  announcement  would  mean  for  me  a  very  dull  winter, 
but  I  wish  it  had  been  announced.  I  hope  your  business 
will  not  suffer  during  your  absence.  Chances  are  often 
lost,  Merrie  says,  and  as  you  can't  be  here,  you  are  for- 
tunate to  have  him  act  for  you.  He  is  so  interested  in 
the  purchase  of  the  Colesworth  house,  and  knows  why 
you  want  it.  I  thought  it  best  to  tell  him.  I  will  be  so 
glad  when  it  is  all  settled.  Yesterday  at  Maria  Perkinson's 
luncheon  everybody  agreed  it  is  the  handsomest  house  in 
the  city,  and  every  woman  there  wanted  it.  I  could  say 
nothing,  but  I  enjoyed  the  surprise  awaiting  when  they 
learn  it  is  to  be  my  house.  Already  I  am  interested  in 
furniture  of  all  periods  and  making  them  a  study.  There 
isn't  a  bit  of  news.  Do  take  care  of  yourself.  I  was  afraid 
you  were  sick.  Only  one  letter  last  week,  and  at  first  you 
wrote  three  or  four.  Don't  worry  if  mine  don't  come 
exactly  on  time.  There  is  much  going  on,  and  dressmakers 
take  endless  hours.  When  I'm  married  I  shall  get  my 
things  in  New  York  and  stop  this  strain  of  dealing  with 
incompetents.  Mother  sends  love.  With  much  from  me, 

Affectionately, 

ISABEL. 
104 


LETTERS 

The  letter  was  put  in  its  envelope  and  then 
thrown  upon  the  table  by  his  side.  Hands 
clasped  behind  his  head  and  feet  outstretched 
under  the  rug  which  covered  them,  Colburn, 
with  brow  wrinkled  in  fine  folds,  for  some  time 
looked  with  unseeing  eyes  across  the  wide, 
sloping  lawn,  and  in  his  mind  revolved  a  good 
many  things  that  were  beginning  to  need  def- 
inite decisions. 

Unless  there  could  be  for  him  a  clean  bill  of 
health  there  should  be  no  marriage.  He  had 
ideas  of  his  own  concerning  matters  of  this 
kind,  and  until  perfectly  well  the  thought  of 
marriage  was  not  to  enter  his  mind.  He  must 
write  Isabel  frankly.  She  must  not  continue 
under  the  impression  that  he  would  be  all  right 
in  the  spring.  He  would  not  be  all  right. 
There  were  other  things,  too,  he  must  write 
Isabel  about.  In  some  way  she  had  acquired 
a  very  inflated  idea  of  his  financial  condition. 
He  could  afford  to  buy  the  Colesworth  house. 
His  eyes  narrowed.  He  didn't  like  the  looks 
of  this  jump  in  price.  There  was  nothing  to 
explain  or  justify  it.  Though  he  had  given 
Ralstone  power  of  attorney,  he  had  not  expected 
him  to  exercise  it  without  acquainting  him  in 
advance  with  the  reason  for  so  doing,  and  had 
expected  him  to  act  only  in  certain  details 
105 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

requiring  immediate  attention ;  still  this  might 
not  be  entirely  understood  by  Ralstone,  and 
Isabel's  reference  to  the  latter  acting  for  him 
was  a  bit  disquieting.  He  could  watch  the 
markets  and  wire  his  broker  as  quickly  as 
Ralstone,  and  if  there  was  any  idea  of  extending 
friendliness  along  this  line  it  must  be  stopped 
at  once.  He  would  write  both  to-morrow. 

For  some  time  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
let  all  manner  of  fleeting  thoughts  come  and  go 
and  then  come  back  again,  and  presently  he 
took  a  note  out  of  an  inside  pocket  and  read  it 
slowly.  It  was  written  the  day  after  the  fishing 
party. 

The  Doctor  tells  me  this  morning  there  will  be  no 
trouble  [it  began]  if  you  will  just  be  careful,  and  I  am 
writing  to  ask  if  you  will  not,  for  Cricket's  sake,  do  what 
he  wishes  you  to  do.  I  know  you  hate  the  system,  but 
if  you  knew  how  Cricket  has  suffered  from  feeling  he  is 
responsible  for  a  possible  set-back  you  would  be  generous 
and  do  what  I  am  asking.  Cricket  is  heartbroken.  For 
the  first  time  he  understands  what  it  means  to  suffer  from 
anxiety,  and  Mrs.  Lemmon  is  understood  as  never  before. 
Long  before  breakfast  this  morning  he  was  at  my  cottage 
to  know  how  you  were.  It  was  so  splendid,  Mr.  Colburn! 
He  is  my  little  friend,  and  I  love  him,  and  you  saved  his 
life!  TASKA  LAIRD. 

Putting  the  note  back  in  his  pocket,  he  again 
looked  at  his  unread  letters.     One  directed  in  a 
large,  round  hand  on  a  soiled  and  cheap  envelope 
1 06 


LETTERS 

attracted  his  attention,  and,  breaking  it  open, 
he  glanced  at  the  labored  writing  with  mild 
speculation  as  to  its  writer,  then  read  it  with 
eyes  that  in  the  reading  grew  blurred  a  little 
bit. 

DEAR  MR.  RIVES  COLBURN. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  can't  sleep  a  wink  to-night.  It's  three 
o'clock  by  the  kitchen  clock,  where  I  am,  and  I  never 
prayed  so  hard  in  my  life.  And  if  the  Lord  wants  me  to 
be  a  preacher,  which  I  ain't  fit  by  nature  for,  I'll  be  one, 
if  He  will  only  keep  you  from  getting  sick  and  there  ain't 
any  bad  effex  from  saving  of  me  yesterday.  Mis'  Lem- 
mon  thinks  it  was  the  will  of  the  Lord,  but  I  think  it  was 
my  riggling.  If  I'd  set  still  it  wouldn't  have  happened. 
I  was  born  a  riggler,  same  as  a  swearer,  and  both  are  bad. 
I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you.  And  this  is  to  say  I 
ain't  much.  I'm  just  a  boy  without  any  blood  kin,  but 
all  I  am  is  for  you,  Mr.  Colburn.  You  won't  ever  go 
where  I  can't  find  you.  There  ain't  but  one  kind  of  a 
friend  I  can  be,  not  having  money  or  book  learning  or 
things  like  that,  but  Miss  Taska  says  love  makes  up  for 
a  lot  of  other  things  what's  lacking. 
Respectfully, 

CRICKET  JOSEPHUS  HAMMILL. 

For  some  time  the  scrawlly  pages  were  kept 
out  of  their  envelope,  but  after  a  while  the 
latter  was  put  in  his  pocket,  and,  taking  off  his 
glasses,  Colburn  wiped  them  long  and  carefully. 

A  noise  on  the  graveled  path  made  him  look 
up.  Mr.  McKenzie  in  a  fur  coat  and  arms  filled 
with  books  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 
107 


IX 

A   BIT   OF   NEWS 

REMARKABLE  weather,  this!  Remark- 
able!" 

Mr.  McKenzie  laid  his  books  down  carefully, 
rattled  the  chair  Colburn  placed  for  him,  shook 
out  the  rug,  took  his  seat,  covered  his  feet,  and, 
fastening  his  fur  coat,  leaned  back  and  eyed  his 
host  with  eyes  so  squinted  that  Colburn  won- 
dered how  anything  could  be  seen  by  them. 

He  was  not  sorry  the  little  man  had  come. 
Each  day  he  had  stopped  to  make  inquiries, 
and  under  his  querulous  intolerance  and  seem- 
ing snappiness  was  a  wealth  of  warm-hearted- 
ness, and,  moreover,  his  caustic  comments  were 
entertaining. 

' '  I  hate  the  idea  of  my  lungs  being  benefited 
by  Yankee  air,  but  we  must  admit  that  for  our 
particular  trouble  this  climate  has  its  advan- 
tages. Smoke?"  A  handful  of  cigars  was 
thrust  in  Colburn's  face. 

"Not  yet.  I  have  no  trouble  with  my 
108 


A    BIT   OF   NEWS 

throat,  but  I'm  not  permitted  the  comfort  of  a 
cigar." 

"My  dear  suh" — the  South-Carolinian  struck 
a  match  with  such  energy  that  it  broke  and  fell 
upon  the  floor — "when  you  live  as  long  as  I 
have  you  will  decide  for  yourself  what  comforts 
you  are  entitled  to.  I'm  moderate.  I  never 
take  but  two  a  day.  For  three  years  I  gave 
up  smoking.  At  that  time  I  imagined  when  I 
was  prohibited  it  was  for  a  personal  reason,  and 
not  on  a  general  principle.  They  were  hard 
years,  suh,  but  they  taught  me  much  that  has 
been  profitable  since." 

A  long,  luxurious  puff  of  the  excellent  cigar 
was  taken,  then  he  leaned  forward  suddenly. 

"Have  you  seen  Taska  this  morning?" 

The  suddenness  and  irrelevancy  of  the  ques- 
tion was  disconcerting,  and,  leaning  forward, 
Colburn  took  the  copy  of  the  Religio  Medici 
from  the  table  where  his  visitor  had  placed  it. 

"She  passed  just  now  on  horseback  with 
Holman  and  Harnish."  He  opened  the  book 
carefully.  "This  looks  like  a  precious  posses- 
sion. I  do  not  wonder  that  you  prize  it." 

"Where  did  they  go?     She  didn't  tell  me  she 

was  to  ride   this   morning."     Mr.    McKenzie 

forgot  his  cigar  for  a  moment  while  his  eyes 

squinted  across  the  lawn.      "I  can't  under- 

109 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

stand  Dr.  Browner  letting  her  take  all  this 
exercise.  That  fishing  business  with  its  excite- 
ment did  her  no  good,  and  now  she's  off  again. 
She  can't  stand  it.  I  know  her  like  a  book; 
knew  her  parents  before  her.  Her  father  was  a 
fine  writer  and  ripe  scholar,  but  no  fighter  of 
life.  He  ought  to  have  had  a  big  church  in  a 
city,  and  instead  he  was  buried  in  the  country 
with  a  little  congregation  which  could  barely  pay 
his  little  salary,  and  how  they  managed  is  a 
mystery  known  only  to  his  wife  and  God  Al- 
mighty. He  had  no  executive  ability,  no  or- 
ganizing power,  and  a  modern  church  needs 
both,  they  tell  me,  and  spiritual  mindedness 
won't  do  the  work.  He  was  a  poet  and  thinker 
and  dreamer ;  yes,  he  was  a  dreamer,  and  there's 
no  place  in  the  world  to-day  for  dreams.  Taska 
got  her  spirit  from  her  mother,  and  she'll  die 
with  her  head  up.  No  matter  how  death  comes, 
she'll  meet  it  with  a  smile  and  bid  it  welcome  if 
come  it  must,  but  she  wants  to  live.  She  wants 
to  live!" 

Colburn  put  the  book  down  and  moved  his 
chair  out  of  the  range  of  his  visitor's  eyes.  He 
was  not  cold,  but  he  was  shivering.  "Is  her 
mother  living?"  he  asked,  not  knowing  what  he 
said,  for  Taska  had  told  him  she  was  dead. 

' '  Died  two  years  after  her  husband.  There's 
no 


A    BIT   OF    NEWS 

a  brother  in  Nebraska,  married,  with  several 
children  and  no  pennies  to  spare,  and  there's 
a  married  sister  with  no  children  and  more 
money  than  she  needs.  Both  wanted  Taska  to 
live  with  them  after  her  mother's  death,  and 
both  were  visited,  and  then  she  went  to  work. 
The  bread  of  others  is  not  sweet  to  Taska,  and, 
moreover,  she's  full  of  this  modern  foolishness 
of  independence.  It's  a  damned  outrage,  suh, 
this  letting  women  go  into  the  world  of  business 
and  struggle  for  a  livelihood!  It's  against  na- 
ture, and  they've  no  right  to  want  to  earn  their 
living!" 

"Women  have  always  earned  their  living." 
Mr.  McKenzie  looked  up.     "I  don't  under- 
stand you,  suh." 

"I  said  women  have  always  earned  their  liv- 
ing— that  is,  the  large  majority  of  them  have. 
The  parasitic  class  is  a  small  one.  Under  pres- 
ent conditions  they  get  a  definite  wage  or  salary 
or  income,  or  whatever  the  equivalent  for  ser- 
vice may  be  termed,  and  in  other  days  they 
didn't.  It  is  unfortunate  for  a  woman  to  be 
forced  into  the  world  of  labor.  Men  should 
prevent  the  necessity,  but  if  they  are  unable  to 
prevent  it  I  admire  her  for  facing  the  fact  and 
meeting  the  situation.  I  often  wonder,  indeed, 
if  this  is  not  the  heroic  age  of  human  history, 
in 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

this  age  of  adjustment  to  new  needs,  to  change 
and  overthrow  and— 

' '  Heroic !' '  The  South-Carolinian's  voice  rose 
shrill  and  high  in  piping  protest.  "This  age 
heroic  ?  This  pushing,  crowding,  money -loving 
age,  with  life  turned  topsyturvy  and  women 
working  side  by  side  with  men!  And  you  a 
Virginian,  suh!  I'm  surprised  at  you!  I  fail 
to  see  where  the  heroic  part  comes  in." 

"A  great  many  people  fail  to  see."  Colburn 
leaned  forward,  hands  clasped  loosely  between 
his  knees.  ' '  Battle-fields  and  blare  of  trumpets 
are  usually  the  setting  of  heroic  parts,  and  glory 
and  honor  are  their  rewards.  The  brave  ac- 
ceptance of  changed  conditions,  the  unloved 
work  that  is  daily  done  gets  little  recognition. 
What  did  Miss  Laird  do?" 

"Went  on  a  newspaper."  Mr.  McKenzie 
kicked  the  chair  in  front  of  him  with  fretful 
impatience.  "I  can't  speak  of  it  quietly — this 
frightful  innovation  of  women  being  wage- 
earners.  If  Taska  would  not  live  with  her 
brother  and  sister  she  should  have  married  and 
had  a  home  of  her  own.  She's  had  chances 
enough,  and  her  refusal  is  beyond  comprehen- 
sion." 

"Perhaps  she  has  certain  old-fashioned  ideas 
as  well  as  you." 

112 


A   BIT   OF   NEWS 

"What's  old-fashioned  ideas  got  to  do  with 
it?  Besides,  she  hasn't  any — I  mean  in  matters 
of  that  kind  she  has  very  new  ideas,  and  she  re- 
fuses to  marry  unless — " 

' '  She  loves  the  man  who  is  to  be  her  husband  ? 
With  the  best  type  of  modern  woman  I  believe 
that  is  the  present  attitude  of  mind.  It  is 
usually  accepted  as  an  old-fashioned  idea  that 
a  woman  should  marry  for  love,  but  I  believe 
you  are  right  in  thinking  that  many  women 
formerly  married  for  a  home,  married  because  it 
was  the  thing  to  do.  The  flavor  of  romance  is 
deepened  by  distance,  and  perhaps  this  prosaic, 
this  commonplace,  this  materialistic  age  in 
which  woman  is  becoming  self-respectingly  in- 
dependent will,  after  all,  prove  the  age  of  real 
romance,  the  age  in  which  marriage  will  be 
based  on  those  things  which  shall  preserve  it 
from  dullness  and  degradation  and  make  it — " 

"7  think  women  formerly  married  for  a  home ! 
I  think  they  married  because  it  was  the  thing 
to  do!"  Mr.  McKenzie  was  out  of  his  chair 
and  his  hands  were  beating  the  air.  "I  don't 
understand  you,  suh!  I  think  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  is  to-day  they  marry  for  such 
things!" 

"But  didn't  you  say  just  now  Miss  Laird 
should  marry  some  one  of  the  men  who  wanted 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

to  marry  her?     If  she  did  not  care  for  any  one 
of  them—" 

' '  But  she  could  have  cared  if  she  had  wanted 
to!"  Hands  were  now  opening  and  shutting  in 
quick,  nervous  movements,  and  Mr.  McKenzie 
began  walking  backward  and  forward  across 
the  porch. 

"Taska  is  foolishly  exacting  in  her  affections. 
She  says  she  will  never  marry  any  man  unless 
she  would  rather  be  with  him  in  the  desert  of 
Sahara  than  away  from  him  in  Paradise.  She's 
a  queer  mixture  of  her  mother  and  her  father, 
and  I've  no  patience  with  such  nonsense.  She 
must  be  her  husband's  good  friend,  his  comrade 
in  reality,  she  says,  and  all  that  modern  non- 
sense. I  reverence  woman,  but  she  should 
thank  her  Maker  if  she  has  a  good  man  to 
love  her  and  shield  and  protect  her.  She  was 
meant  by  the  Almighty  to  marry  and  make  a 
home  for — 

"The  man  she  loves  and  who  loves  her — yes." 
Colburn,  too,  got  up,  and  in  his  face  was  sud- 
den whiteness  and  weariness,  and  in  his  voice 
unconscious  bitterness. 

"And  for  no  other  reason  on  God's  earth 
should  she  make  it.     On  no  other  basis  can  a 
man  and  a  woman  make  a  home  out  of  a  house. 
I  think  Miss  Laird  is  entirely  right." 
114 


A    BIT   OF    NEWS 

"She's  going  away.     Did  you  know  it?" 

Colburn  stopped  as  suddenly  as  the  question 
was  asked  abruptly. 

"Going  away?"  Stooping,  he  picked  up 
Isabel  McLean's  letter  that  had  blown  off  the 
table  and  put  it  back.  His  breath  came  a 
little  unsteadily,  then  he  straightened  and 
looked  across  the  lawn. 

"I  am  glad  she  is  able  to  go  home,"  he  said; 
and  the  strained  note  in  his  voice  was  evident 
to  himself.  "I  congratulate  her." 

"She  isn't  going  home.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
she  has  no  home?"  Mr.  McKenzie's  voice  was 
more  querulous  than  ever.  He  was  frankly 
worried;  and,  taking  out  his  handkerchief,  he 
wiped  his  face  with  quick,  jerky  movements, 
then  he  sat  down. 

"Where  is  she  going?    To  her  sister's?" 

"Sister's!  Didn't  I  tell  you  she  wouldn't 
live  with  her  sister?  Mrs.  Heatherman  is  a 
woman  of  fashion  and  acquainted  with  sham, 
and  her  taste  and  Taska's  are  as  apart  as  mine 
and  a  modernist's.  Mrs.  Heatherman's  hus- 
band has  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  her  chief 
occupation  is  feeding  the  wealthy  and  buying 
new  clothes,  and  neither  of  those  things  interests 
Taska.  She  is  the  older,  but  the  difference  in 
their  natures,  their  characters,  makes  her  depend 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

upon  and  look  up  to  Taska,  who  is  the  one  hu- 
man being  she  really  loves  besides  herself. 
She  won't  like  it,  Taska's  leaving  here,  but  when 
the  latter  makes  up  her  mind  you  might  as  well 
blink  at  the  moon  and  beg  it  to  stop  shining  as 
try  to  stop  her.  Did  you  ever  notice  how  many 
fine  women  can  do  fool  things  ?  To  go  away  just 
when — " 

"Where  is  she  going?" 

"To  some  out-of-the-way  place  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Virginia.  She  doesn't  care  for  the 
treatment  here."  Mr.  McKenzie  nodded  con- 
fidentially, and  his  thin  voice  lowered  to  a  fine 
whisper.  "Between  you  and  me  she  thinks 
there's  a  lot  of  durned  nonsense  at  places  of 
this  sort,  thinks  patients  get  so  pampered 
they're  unfit  for  life  after  they  leave.  Sanitary 
house-parties  are  not  to  her  liking.  This  old 
Doctor  to  whom  she  is  devoted  is  something 
of  a  character,  and  Taska  loves  a  character  as 
much  as  she  doesn't  love  commonplaceness  and 
convention.  He's  coming  soon  to  see  her  and 
will  take  her  with  him  when  he  goes  away." 

Colburn  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  said  noth- 
ing. Over  the  latter  a  dull,  sodden  grayness 
seemed  to  be  setting,  and  the  sun,  which  an 
hour  ago  had  been  gaily  shining,  was  gone. 
The  air  was  sharp  and  chill,  and  he  wished  Mr. 
116 


A    BIT   OF    NEWS 

McKenzie  would  go  back  to  his  own  cottage. 
He  was  tired,  tired  of  everything.  Again  he 
looked  at  the  sky. 

"I  believe  it  is  going  to  snow,"  he  said. 
"The  morning  was  fine,  but — " 

"It  does  look  like  snow."  Mr.  McKenzie 
jumped  up  and  began  to  fasten  his  coat. 
"Might  have  known  it.  Women  and  weather 
are  just  alike.  Never  know  what  they'll  do 
next.  But  I  never  thought  of  Taska's  going 
away.  I'm  a  confounded  fool  to  care,  suh,  but 
I  love  the  child !  She  carries  cheer  and  courage, 
and  she  hides  her  own  hurt,  and  when  she  goes 
the  place  won't  seem  the  same.  To  you  she's  a 
stranger,  and  you  won't  miss  her,  but  I'll  miss 
her.  I'm  an  old  man  and  when  she  goes — 
Good-by,  Mr.  Colburn."  The  shriveled,  well- 
shaped  hand  was  held  out,  and,  with  a  grip 
that  hurt,  Colburn  shook  it ;  then,  as  his  visitor 
reached  the  bottom  step,  he  turned  and  went 
into  his  room  and  locked  the  door. 


X 

A   WALK   AND   A   TALK 

STANDING  on  the  top  step  of  the  veran- 
da of  Baywood's  main  building,  Colburn 
swept  the  scene  before  him  with  critical  and 
appreciative  eyes.  The  night  before  the  first 
snow  of  the  season  had  fallen.  As  far  as  hills 
and  valley  and  winding  roads  could  be  seen, 
vast  vistas  of  whiteness  gleamed  in  the  sun- 
light, and  on  their  frozen  surface  reflected  the 
brilliant  glow  of  a  cloudless  sky. 

Very  clearly  in  sight  was  Fernleigh,  where  the 
Resters,  as  Cricket  called  them,  were  under  the 
scientific  treatment  of  Dr.  Browner's  brother, 
and  many  of  its  patients  were  the  "cured"  of 
Baywood  who  yet  needed  the  care  and  watchful 
guardianship  of  expert  attention.  It  was  rather 
a  clever  idea  of  the  brothers  Browner,  this 
apart  but  not  divided  arrangement.  They 
were  clever  men.  Personally,  he  thought  them 
fakers,  but  they  understood  human  nature  and 
used  their  knowledge  well. 
118 


A   WALK   AND   A   TALK 

For  over  a  month  he  had  followed  faithfully 
their  every  order,  done  what  he  was  told,  and 
left  undone  the  things  he  liked  to  do,  and  the 
report  of  his  improvement  was  cheering,  though 
cautious.  He  was  certainly  stronger.  The 
weekly  tests  were  satisfactory,  but  the  underly- 
ing impression  was  always  that  of  a  serio-comic 
performance  in  which  he  was  taking  part,  and 
it  was  difficult  to  accept  as  conclusive  the 
technically  phrased  opinion  concerning  his  con- 
dition which  was  given  at  regular  intervals  and 
with  due  state  in  the  office  of  the  big  blond  ruler 
of  this  little  kingdom  of  the  sick.  With  these 
opinions  he  was  not  satisfied,  and  yet — 

"I  am  going  to  the  village,  Mr.  Colburn. 
Would  you  like  to  go  with  me?"  In  her  fur 
coat  and  veil-covered  hat  Taska  Laird  stood, 
hands  in  her  muff,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and 
looked  at  the  man  at  the  top.  "The  walking 
isn't  very  good,  but — " 

"Good  or  bad,  I  want  to  go.  Thank  you 
for  letting  me." 

Hat  in  hand,  Colburn  came  down  the  steps. 
"I  am  horribly  tired  of  myself,  and  even  more 
so  of  Harnish  and  Holman  and  the  bunch 
who've  been  playing  pool  all  the  morning. 
Games  were  left  out  of  my  make-up.  Are  you 
going  right  away?" 

119 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"As  soon  as  you  put  on  your  rubbers." 

Taska  looked  down  at  Colburn's  feet.  "In 
some  places  the  snow  is  very  deep.  You  are 
not  very  careful,  Mr.  Colburn.  Yesterday  you 
came  to  dinner  without  your  overcoat.  It  was 
very  cold,  yesterday." 

"Was  it?"  Taking  out  his  watch,  Colburn 
looked  at  it.  Three  o'clock  was  what  he  read. 
They  could  hardly  be  back  before  five.  He 
closed  the  watch  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "I'll 
get  the  rubbers  if  you'll  wait  a  minute.  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  them.  Until 
lately  I  never  had  to  think." 

Changing  his  overcoat  for  a  heavier  one  and 
slipping  on  his  overshoes,  Colburn  came  out  of 
his  cottage,  and  joining  Miss  Laird,  who  had 
walked  on  ahead,  swung  easily  into  step  with 
her  down  the  road  which  wound  in  zigzag 
fashion  to  the  little  village  some  distance  away. 
In  the  faces  of  both,  stung  by  the  clear,  sharp 
air,  was  alert  interest  in  the  scene  about  them, 
and  the  mere  act  of  walking  gave  keen  and  frank 
delight. 

For  some  moments  neither  spoke,  and  then 
Taska  looked  up. 

"Did  you  ever  feel  when  something  you  have 
long  wanted  to  happen  is  about  to  happen  that 
you  would  like  to  stand  on  a  hilltop  and  open 

120 


A    WALK   AND    A   TALK 

your  arms  to  earth  and  sky  and  let  the  wind 
blow  over  you  while  you  sang  something, 
something  you  had  to  sing?"  Her  voice  was 
gaily  happy.  ' '  Did  you  ever  feel  that  way  ?" 

"I  have  never  even  hoped  to  have  anything 
happen  that  could  make  me  feel  that  way. 
I'm  afraid  I've  lived  on  a  pretty  dead  level. 
I  know  a  little  of  the  depths,  but  of  the  hill- 
tops of  life — "  He  looked  down  in  the  face 
aglow  with  something  not  caused  alone  by 
sting  of  biting  air,  and  his  own  changed  color. 
"I  think  I  can  understand  how  such  a  thing 
might  happen,  but — " 

"Oh,  it  will  happen.  The  thing  is  just  to 
want  it  bad  enough,  long  enough,  and  never 
give  up  until  you  get  it.  I  don't  mean  you're 
apt  to  be  a  Czar  by  wanting  to  be  one,  or  that 
you  and  the  moon-man  are  likely  to  learn  each 
other's  secrets,  or  out-of-reach  things  of  that 
sort.  I  mean—  Again  she  laughed.  "To 
tell  isn't  necessary.  When  I  was  young  I 
couldn't  decide  whether  I  wanted  to  marry  the 
President  or  a  minister  to  a  foreign  court  or  a 
terribly  rich  person,  or  not  marry  and  be  some- 
thing myself — the  head  of  a  great  school  for 
girls  or  a  wonderful  singer  or  painter,  or  any 
top-lofty  thing  that  would  take  me  out  of  the 
obscurity  and  deadness  of  the  little  village  where 

121 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

I  then  lived.  At  the  ambitious  period  of  my 
life  I  was  about  seventeen,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing in  all  the  big,  wide  world  I  wouldn't  have 
undertaken  with  irresponsible  confidence  that 
in  some  way  it  would  be  done  somehow.  I 
wasn't  afraid  of  a  throne  or  a  platform  or  the 
strongest  of  lights.  I  wanted  to  be  in  the  light. 
I  hated  the  country,  its  dullness  and  dreariness, 
and  dreaming  was  the  delight  of  my  life."  She 
looked  up  in  his  face.  "Aren't  girls  queer?" 

Into  hers  he  looked  with  strange  steadiness. 
"Are  they?"  he  asked.  "Personally,  they've 
always  represented  the  unknown  quantity,  but 
as  for  queerness — " 

"You  know  as  little  of  girls  as  the  people  of 
Timbuctoo  know  of  you.  They  are  queer. 
But  the  odd  part  of  my  dreams  was  the  negli- 
gible interest  I  felt  in  the  man  I  must  marry 
if  the  craved  glory  and  honor  and  prominence 
and  power  were  to  be  provided.  I  can't  re- 
member for  a  moment  being  able  to  define  him 
in  any  way.  He  was  merely  the  means  to  an 
end." 

"With  a  great  many  women  the  man  of  the 
marriage  is  merely  the  means  to  an  end." 
Colburn  stepped  ahead  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"This  is  a  bad  bit  of  road  just  here.  You'll 
have  to  be  careful  going  down  this  hill." 

122 


A   WALK   AND    A   TALK 

Safely  down,  he  again  turned  to  her.  ' '  Have 
the  years  brought  a  clearer  vision?"  His  voice 
made  effort  to  be  light.  "Or  is  the  man  still 
but  a  means  to  an  end?" 

She  looked  up.  The  turn  of  her  head  was 
quick  and  indignant.  "You  think  I  still 
think —  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you 
meant  what  you  said."  She  smiled.  "I  won- 
der sometimes  that  somebody  doesn't  keep  a 
record  of  the  successive  decisions  and  ambitions 
of  a  girl's  mind  and  heart  concerning  marriage. 
She  isn't  told  in  words,  but  so  subtly  is  she  made 
to  understand  that  marriage  is  for  her  the 
ultimate  object  of  life  and  the  desirable  destiny 
that  she  accepts  the  point  of  view  not  only  with- 
out question,  but  begins  early  to  speculate  as 
to  her  future  husband.  It's  all  dead  wrong." 

"What?     Marriage?" 

"No."  Her  foot  slipped  on  a  rock  under  the 
snow  and  she  stumbled  slightly.  "Came  near 
going  down  that  time.  I  hate  hidden  things!" 
Stooping,  she  brushed  the  snow  from  her  shoe. 

"Did  you  twist  your  ankle?"  Colburn's 
voice  was  nervously  anxious.  "It  was  my 
fault.  I  should  have  gone  ahead." 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,  but  it  may  have  been 
your  question."  She  laughed  lightly.  "Do  I 
look  like  a  person  who  doesn't  believe  in  mar- 
123 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

riage?  I  certainly  do — for  other  people.  De- 
cisions are  a  relief,  aren't  they?  Now  that 
I  shall  never  marry,  I  can  have  all  sorts  of  ideas 
and  theories  on  the  subject.  What  I  think  is 
wrong  is  for  girls  to  feel  marriage  must  be,  any- 
how or  somehow.  It  should  be  the  happiest 
life  for  men  and  women  if  they  are  honest  men 
and  women,  and  polite  men  and  women,  and  in- 
love  men  and  women,  and — " 

"You  believe  there  should  be  qualifications 
for  the  high  office."  Hands  in  his  pockets, 
Colburn  looked  ahead.  "I'm  afraid  few  of  us 
think  of  it  in  that  light.  To  many  it  is  but  the 
next  step — that  is,  after  we  pass  a  certain  age. 
In  the  days  of  our  youth  it  is  different,  but  the 
days  of  our  youth  are  few." 

Taska  stopped.  "I'm  a  very  stupid  person. 
I've  a  message  for  you.  Last  night  I  had  a 
letter  from  my  cousin,  Janet  Reynolds,  in  which 
she  asked  me  to  congratulate  you  for  her  on 
your  engagement  to  Miss  McLean."  She  held 
out  her  hand.  "May  I  add  mine  also,  Mr. 
Colburn.  Miss  McLean  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  have  seen  a  good 
many  beautiful  women." 

Colburn  lifted  his  hat,  but  the  hand  with 
which  he  touched  Taska's  was  as  cold  as  his  face 
was  hot. 

124 


A    WALK   AND   A   TALK 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  his  brow  ridged  in 
tiny  purple  folds.  "You  are  very  kind.  May 
I  ask  how  your  cousin  heard  of — of  my  good 
fortune?" 

"I  don't  remember.  I  read  her  letter  very 
hurriedly.  Oh  yes."  Taska  thought  a  mo- 
ment. "She  said  Mr.  Ralstone  had  told  her, 
and  that  you  and  Merriweather  Ralstone  were 
great  friends." 

Something  undefmable  in  her  tone  made 
Colburn  look  at  her  searchingly.  "I  did  not 
know  he  was  a  friend  of  yours." 

"He  isn't."  The  emphasis  of  her  tone  was 
significant.  "I've  known  him  for  years.  He's 
a  distant  connection  and  the  most  charming  of 
talkers,  but  on  his  oath  I  wouldn't  trust  him. 
He  is  not  a  friend  of  mine." 

For  a  moment  there  was  curious  silence. 
Ahead  of  them  a  blackbird  hopped  cautiously 
across  the  snow,  and  the  low-hanging  branches 
of  the  crystal-coated  trees  swung  gaily  in  the 
light  wind;  but  to  Colburn  the  glow  of  the 
day  was  gone,  and  an  unnamable  indignation 
possessed  him.  If  Isabel  did  not  wish  her  en- 
gagement announced,  why  had  she  told  Ral- 
stone? Why  had  Ralstone  told  Miss  Rey- 
nolds? Why  had  Miss  Reynolds  written  to 
Miss  Laird? 

125 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

He  turned  to  the  girl  beside  him.  "Does 
Mr.  Ralstone  know  you  are  at  Bay  wood?" 

' '  He  knew  it  a  month  ago.  I  had  a  letter  from 
him.  I  have  not  answered  it,  but  I  suppose 
he  knows  I  am  still  here.  I  am  going  away  next 
week." 

She  took  a  deep  indrawing  breath,  and  her 
head  was  held  high.  "I'm  going  to  Piping 
Forest,  where  we  look  things  in  the  face  and  are 
not  afraid.  That  is  why  I  am  so  happy,  Mr. 
Colburn!  I'm  so  tired  of  this  fencing  with 
facts.  To  run  away  from  that  which  follows, 
to  shut  our  eyes,  to  play  and  make  believe,  and 
to  be  fearing  under  the  pretense  of  ignoring  is 
such  a  queer  way  of  living.  And  then,  too,  at 
Piping  Forest  there  are  things  to  do.  Life  in 
the  large  isn't  there,  but  every  type  of  human 
nature  is.  All  the  little  tragedies  and  comedies 
and  heartaches  and  happinesses  and  primal,  ele- 
mental loves  and  hates  are  close  at  hand;  and 
he's  there,  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  had 
an  understanding  heart." 

Colburn  reached  up  his  hand,  and,  pulling  low 
a  branch  of  the  tree  he  was  passing,  let  it  swing 
back  and  scatter  its  spraylike  snow,  but  he 
made  no  comment  on  the  information  given. 
It  should  not  matter  where  she  went.  It  should 
not  matter  that  she  was  going.  Had  he  not 

126 


A    WALK   AND    A    TALK 

just  received  her  congratulations  ?  He  laughed 
harshly  and  then  coughed  to  strangle  the  strange 
sound. 

"You  must  know  Dr.  Grannere,  Mr.  Col- 
burn."  Taska's  voice  was  joyous.  "I  think 
you  and  he  would  be  good  friends.  He  was  a 
schoolmate  of  my  father's,  and,  though  for  many 
years  he  lived  abroad,  their  weekly  letters  never 
failed  to  come  and  go.  Somehow  he's  always 
seemed  like  some  one  in  a  book,  his  life  has  been 
so  odd  in  one  sense,  so  simple  in  another.  His 
grandfather  was  from  Normandy,  and  came  to 
America  when  a  very  young  man.  On  the  boat 
coming  over  was  a  young  Russian  girl  whose 
father  was  on  some  diplomatic  business  for  his 
government,  and  very  promptly  they  fell  in  love. 
A  month  after  they  landed  they  ran  off  and 
were  married.  It  made  a  dreadful  fuss.  She 
was  very  lovely  and  well  born,  and,  though  his 
family  was  good,  he  had  no  money  with  which 
to  pay  the  bills,  and  there  will  be  bills !  Neither 
was  accustomed  to  economizing,  and  they  had 
a  hard  time,  I  imagine,  but  they  were  so  in  love, 
the  story  goes,  that  nothing  mattered. 

"At  the  birth  of  her  baby  the  mother  died,  and 

the  father  took  the  child  to  Louisiana,  where  he 

grew  up  and  married  a  Creole  beauty  of  New 

Orleans.     My  Doctor  is  their  son.     After  his 

127 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

graduation  he  went  abroad  and  lived  for  years 
in  France.  There  something  happened,  some- 
thing of  which  he  never  speaks,  and,  coming 
to  Virginia,  he  practically  buried  himself  at 
Piping  Forest,  a  quaint  old  place  built  in  the 
days  when  Washington  was  surveying  the 
state,  and  there  he  has  lived  ever  since. 
After  a  while  he  woke  up,  as  it  were,  and  for 
years  his  home  has  been  a  little  world  of  its 
own,  a  world  apart,  but  a  world  of  peace  where 
one  finds  the  things  one  has  lost  in  other 
places.  My  father  knew  what  brought  him 
back,  but  not  even  to  my  mother  did  he  tell 
what  to  him  alone  was  told,  and  it  is  so  far 
away  now  that  its  memory  is  no  longer  bitter. 
It  may  never  have  been  bitter.  I  do  not  know. 
I  only  imagine  there  must  have  been  a  very 
cruel  sorrow,  or  else  he  could  not  understand  the 
queer,  strange  mistakes  we  make,  or  the  hopes 
and  fears  and  joys  and — "  She  stopped  and, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  eyes,  shaded  them  from 
the  sun,  still  brilliant,  though  nearing  the  white 
battlements  of  the  hills. 

"Isn't  that  Cricket?"  Her  hand  was  waved, 
and,  laughing,  she  looked  at  the  man  beside 
her.  "Upon  you  has  been  laid  a  great  re- 
sponsibility, Mr.  Colburn.  Hereafter  you  are 
to  be  followed  blindly,  and  a  young  life  is  to  be 
128 


A   WALK   AND   A   TALK 

patterned  after  yours.  His  adoration  is  dumb, 
but  it  is  very  deep." 

"Take  care!" 

Colburn  put  out  his  hand  and  pulled  Taska 
closer  to  his  side  of  the  road.  A  sleigh,  with- 
out bells  and  driven  rapidly,  had  turned  in  just 
ahead,  and  as  it  passed  its  occupants  bowed,  and 
Taska's  eyes  were  raised  perplexedly  to  Col- 
burn's. 

' '  She  promised  me  she  would  not  go  with  him 
this  morning."  In  her  voice  was  indignation 
and  distress.  "What  can  you  do  with  a  person 
who  does  not  tell  the  truth?" 

"Nothing."  Colburn's  shoulders  shrugged 
imperceptibly.  "When  a  lady  lies —  Hello, 
Cricket!  Been  skating  to-day?" 


XI 

LUMPS   AND   BUMPS 

CRICKET,  sitting  opposite  Mr.  Colburn, 
put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  pushed  back 
his  plate,  and  looked  at  his  host  with  eyes  that 
were  searching  and  uncertain.  They  were  big 
and  blue  and  bright  eyes,  that  were  bigger  and 
bluer  and  brighter  for  their  setting  in  a  round, 
freckled  face  and  for  the  close-cropped  curly 
head  that  was  deeply  red;  and  from  them  little 
could  be  long  concealed.  They  were  indeed 
what  might  be  called  inquiring  eyes. 

Colburn  raised  his.  "What's  the  matter? 
Can't  you  eat  your  dinner?" 

Cricket  shook  his  head.  "Ain't  hungry. 
It's  a  funny  thing.  I've  been  wanting  to  take 
dinner  in  this  here  hotel  ever  since  it  was  built. 
Once  I  saved  up  thirty-eight  cents.  It  costs 
seventy-five,  don't  it?" 

"I'm  not  sure  of  the  price."  Colburn  took 
up  a  glass  of  water  and  eyed  it  carefully. 
"What  are  you  going  to  have  for  dessert?" 

For  a  full  moment  there  was  indecision. 
130 


LUMPS    AND    BUMPS 

Long  desire  and  immediate  inability  fought  a 
short  fight,  then  again  Cricket  shook  his  head. 

"Three  kinds  of  pie  and  ice-cream  and  cake 
and  nuts  and  raisins"  -his  lips  trembled 
slightly — "and  I  can't  swallow  a  one.  Last 
week  I  could  have  et — "  Wrathfully  he  sat  up 
and  his  eyes  blinked  rapidly  to  keep  back  that 
which  should  not  come  out.  Leaning  forward, 
he  put  his  hand  on  his  chest. 

"Did  you  ever  feel  as  if  you  had  something 
right  here  which  was  digging  a  great  big  emp- 
ty nothing  inside  of  you,  Mr.  Colburn?  Did 
you?" 

"I  don't  know  just  exactly  what — " 

"Then  you  never  had  it.  If  you'd  ever  had 
it  you'd  know.  First  time  I  ever  had  it  was  the 
night  after —  Over  the  freckled  face  color 
crept  to  the  temples.  "When  I  was  'fraid  you 
were  going  to  be  sick  on  account  of  me.  Got  it 
again  to-day.  It's  been  coming  ever  since  she 
told  me  she  was  going  away,  and  now  she's  went 
it's  a  lump  as  big  as — " 

Safety  was  in  silence,  and  Colburn,  taking  the 
card,  ordered  cheese  and  coffee  from  the  low- 
bending  waiter  and  looked  across  the  room  at  a 
couple  in  a  far-off  corner.  He  was  not  given  to 
demonstration,  but  a  desire  to  draw  the  boy 
close  to  him  possessed  him  curiously.  The 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

child  was  suffering.  In  his  starved  life  there 
had  been  so  little  to  love,  so  few  to  inspire  the 
loyal  affection  of  which  he  was  capable,  that  to 
have  go  out  of  it  the  one  being  who  to  him  repre- 
sented all  that  was  wonderful  and  beautiful  and 
splendid  was  a  tragedy;  and  with  an  under- 
standing that  was  new-born  and  sweet,  with  a 
strange  bitterness  he  felt  for  him  a  sympathy 
that  must  have  no  words,  but  yet  was  strong  and 
deep. 

"We  all  have  lumps  now  and  then.  They're 
part  of  the  game."  Colburn's  voice  was 
amazingly  cheerful.  "You  haven't  the  only 
one  that's  about  in  the  world.  Everybody— 

"I've  kinder  got  used  to  bumps."  Cricket 
again  sat  back  in  his  chair.  "Mis'  Lemmon 
told  when  she  first  took  me  there  was  plenty  of 
'em,  and  I  needn't  think  it  was  any  rose-bush, 
primrose  sort  of  path  I  was  a-going  over ;  but  I 
don't  believe  anybody  gets  used  to  lumps.  Of 
course,  if  you've  never  had  them — 

"Oh,  I've  had  them."  With  his  spoon  Col- 
burn  traced  the  pattern  of  a  daisy  on  the  table- 
cloth. "All  human  beings  have  them,  but 
human  beings  are  divided  into  two  classes — 
those  who  talk  about  their  lumps  and  those  who 
keep  them  to  themselves.  No  use  making  the 
other  fellow  lumpier  by  carting  out  your  own 
132 


LUMPS    AND    BUMPS 

and  showing  it  around.  While  we  are  liv- 
ing- 

"What  you  reckon  we're  living  for,  anyhow? 
'Tain't  much  to  it,  is  it?" 

"To  what?" 

"Living.  Lumps  and  bumps  and  milking, 
and  folks  you  love  leaving  you,  and  things 
happening  what  you  didn't  know  could  hap- 
pen, and  your  skates  breaking  when  the  ice  is 
thickest,  and —  I  tell  you,  when  you  ain't  got 
any  blood  kin  and  nobody  cares,  you  don't 
know  what  you  was  born  for,  anyhow.  You 
can  go  to  see  her  when  you  want  to,  but— 

Colburn  put  a  lump  of  sugar  in  his  coffee,  and 
his  eyes  narrowed.  He  could  go  to  see  her 
when  he  wanted  to !  Could  he  ?  His  head  lifted. 

"That  mince-pie  looks  very  nice,  Cricket." 
He  beckoned  to  the  waiter.  ' '  I  think  you  could 
try  a  piece  of  that.  When  we're  through  with 
dinner  I'm  going  to  the  express  office.  I 
ordered  some  books  last  week.  A  couple  of 
them  are  for  you.  It's  possible  that  they've 
come.  I  saw  Mr.  Jobson  this  afternoon,  and 
he  told  me  if  they  had  got  here  he'd  open  up 
and  let  me  have  them  to-night." 

Cricket  was  bolt  upright.  Up-leaping  youth 
had  rights  not  yet  to  be  surrendered.  Trouble 
was  trouble,  but  joy  was  joy. 

10  133 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"Books!"  His  face  crimsoned.  "Is  one  of 
'em — "  He  hesitated,  and  under  the  table  his 
knees  came  together  with  tense  tightness.  "Is 
one  of  'em  Huckleberry — " 

"It  is."  Colburn  bowed  to  Mrs.  Woods  and 
Mr.  Ambleton,  who  had  left  their  table  in  the 
corner  and  were  passing  on  their  way  out. 
"  The  other  is— " 

"Don't  tell  me!"  Hands  in  his  pockets, 
Cricket  dug  his  nails  into  his  palms.  "Lemme 
think  what  I'd  like  it  to  be!  Ain't  ever  had 
but  three  books  I  wanted  in  my  life.  Miss 
Taska  gave  me  two  of  them.  Mis'  Lemmon 
gave  me  one  for  a  Christmas  present  once,  and 
I  put  it  where  a  billy-goat  could  eat  it  con- 
venient. It  was  Principles  of  Pure  Living. 
Regular  petticoat  poppy-jack.  Mis'  Lemmon 
wouldn't  know  what  a  boy  likes  if  she  was  to 
try,  and  she'd  think  it  was  a  sin  to  try." 

A  fork  was  plunged  with  violent  emphasis 
into  the  piece  of  pie  on  the  plate  before  him. 
"This  is  good  pie,  all  right.  Are  we  going  to 
the  office  as  soon  as  we  get  through  in  here?" 

Colburn  nodded  and  paid  the  bill.  Cricket's 
pie  was  disappearing  in  large  gulps,  and,  watch- 
ing the  process  by  which  nature  reasserts  itself 
and  life  becomes  again  a  thing  of  interest  and 
delight,  he  was  conscious  of  the  gap  which  could 


LUMPS    AND    BUMPS 

throw  off  the  shadow  of  to-day  and  think  only 
of  the  morrow's  promise ;  and,  with  an  indrawn 
breath,  he  got  up. 

"Ready?" 

Cricket,  whose  mouth  was  too  full  to  speak, 
dusted  his  fingers,  nodded,  and  got  up  also. 
Out  in  the  street,  where  the  few  village  lights 
were  shining,  he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  made  effort  to  walk  quietly ;  but  there  was 
spring  in  his  feet,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
skip  was  not  to  be  resisted.  Presently  his  steps 
slowed,  however,  and  he  looked  up  in  his  friend's 
face. 

"Reckon  she's  got  to  New  York  yet?" 

Colburn  took  out  his  watch.  "Not  yet. 
Their  train  isn't  due  in  New  York  until  eight- 
fifteen." 

"Will  they  stay  there  all  night?" 

"For  several  nights,  I  believe.  Miss  Laird 
has  friends  she  is  to  visit,  and  the  Doctor  has 
some  things  to  get  for  his — " 

"Tain't  a  sanitarium,  is  it?" 

' '  No.  That  is,  not  a  Baywood  kind.  He  has 
a  big,  old-fashioned  house,  I  believe,  and  a  few 
small  cottages.  Most  of  his  patients  are  the 
poor  people  in  the  mountains.  There  are  a  few 
others,  but  generally  they  are  not  the  body-sick 
kind." 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"Lump-sick  kind,  maybe."  Cricket's  voice 
was  that  of  cheerful  understanding.  "My 
lump  feels  right  smart  better.  I  don't  mean 
it's  gone ;  it  won't  ever  all  go  till  she  comes  back, 
but  it's  lighter  than  it  was  before  I  ate  the  pie. 
You  couldn't  live  with  a  lump  all  the  time,  could 
you,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

"It  would  be  pretty  dreary  living.  Still, 
some  people — " 

"It's  your  heart  what  makes  lumps,  ain't  it? 
A  heart  certainly  is  a  funny  thing.  I  had  one 
once  what  was  a  chicken's,  and  one  what  was 
a  cow's.  I  killed  the  chicken,  but  the  cow  was 
Mr.  Blane's.  He  cut  her  up  to  sell  and  gave 
me  the  heart.  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  find 
anything  in  'em  what  makes  a  chicken  cackle 
and  cluck  and  a  cow  moo  and  moan.  Ever 
hear  a  cow  moan?  I  heard  one  once.  She'd 
lost  her  calf.  I  run  like  the  devil.  I  didn't 
find  out  anything  from  the  hearts.  I  squeezed 
them  till  they  warn't  nothing  but  pulp,  and  I 
got  so  bothered  about  it  I  couldn't  hardly  sleep ; 
and  then  I  heard  a  fellow  play  a  violin,  and  I 
sorter  caught  on  how  it  might  be.  I  ain't  sure, 
though.  Did  you  ever  wish  you  didn't  have  a 
heart,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

"There  have  been  times,  yes." 

Colburn  hurried  his  steps.  Cricket  had  a 
136 


LUMPS   AND    BUMPS 

peculiar  way  of  holding  on  to  peculiar  subjects. 
Why  couldn't  he  talk  about  his  books? 

"Reckon  you'll  miss  her  too,  won't  you?" 

"Miss  who?  Oh,  Miss  Laird?  I  will  miss 
her  very  much." 

"Must  be  an  awful  lonely  place  she's  going 
to.  It's  way  up  on  top  a  mountain,  and  there 
ain't  a  store  or"  —  Cricket's  steps  dragged 
slowly ;  they  were  approaching  Baywood's  chief 
concession  to  the  spirit  of  the  age — "or  a 
moving-picture  show  in  it.  I  wouldn't  like  to 
live  in  a  place  where  they  didn't  have  moving 
pictures.  Ain't  it  funny  she  wanted  to  go  to  a 
place  like  that?" 

In  electrically  lighted  letters  over  the  former 
millinery  shop  of  Mrs.  Finder  the  words 
"Around  the  World"  blazed  brilliantly,  and 
Colburn  slipped  inside.  The  boy  was  wound 
up  and  must  be  stopped. 

For  half  an  hour  Cricket  sat  in  awed  and 
quivering  silence.  The  pictures  were  new  and 
lurid  and  thrilling,  and  the  spell  was  not  to  be 
broken  by  words.  When,  however,  there  were 
no  more  to  be  seen,  and  the  precious  books  were 
under  his  arms  and  Colburn  about  to  get  in  the 
village  hack  which  would  take  him  to  the 
sanitarium,  it  being  too  late  to  walk,  he  took 
off  his  cap  and  held  out  his  hand. 


"You've  been  bully  about  it,  Mr.  Colburn, 
and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  go 
to  the  station  with  you  to  see  her  off,  and  for 
taking  dinner  with  you,  and  for  the  books,  and 
for — for  all  the  things  you've  done  for  me.  I 
didn't  think  there  could  be  anybody  I'd  hate 
to  see  go  way  as  bad  as  I'd  hate  to  see  her, 
but" — his  voice  trailed  off  into  husky  shyness 
—"but  there  is.  You  ain't  going,  are  you,  Mr. 
Colburn?" 

"No  chance  that  I  see  at  present."  Colburn 
leaned  out  of  the  shabby  old  vehicle  and  shook 
Cricket's  hand.  "Good  night,  old  man.  By 
the  way,  she  told  me  you  were  to  report  to — 

"You.  I  am."  Cricket  on  tiptoe  bent  for- 
ward eagerly.  "I've  got  a  new  string.  Had 
it  a  week,  ain't  got  a  knot  in  it  yet.  She  said 
she'd  trust  me  to  fix  on  the  number  of  pages, 
and  now  she's  gone  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  make 
it  harder  for  myself.  It's  going  to  be  one  page 
for  'gol  darned,'  and  two  for  'devil,'  and  three 
for  'hell,'  and  four  for  'damn.''  He  stopped 
and  his  face  clouded.  "Didn't  I  say  something 
I  oughtn't  to  just  now?" 

"I  believe  you  did.     Something  about — ' 

' '  I  said  it.  'Twas  before  we  saw  the  pictures. 
I  said,  '  Run  like  the  devil.'  " 

Slowly  the  knot  was  tied  in  the  string  drawn 
138 


LUMPS    AND    BUMPS 

from  around  his  neck.  "The  very  first  night," 
he  said ;  and  his  lips  quivered.  ' '  I  don't  reckon 
it's  any  use,  Mr.  Colburn.  I  prayed  like  hell 
last  night  that  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to-day  I 
oughtn't,  and — 

Colburn  closed  the  door  of  the  carriage  and 
nodded  to  the  boy  outside.  "We  won't  count 
to-night,"  he  called.  "We'll  begin  to-morrow. 
Good  night."  And,  settling  himself  in  the  un- 
comfortable old  hack,  he  leaned  back  in  a  corner 
and  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  what  must 
not  be  seen. 

For  some  minutes  thought  was  held  in  abey- 
ance ;  and  then,  one  by  one,  they  crept  in  front 
of  him,  came  forward,  slowly,  shyly,  darted 
away  as  misty  shadows  come  and  go,  then  came 
back  boldly  and  passed  again,  those  days  of  the 
five  weeks  which  had  been  spent  at  Baywood. 
The  hated  first  ones  of  unrest  and  irritation,  the 
night  he  had  met  Taska,  the  long  walks  they  had 
had  together,  the  long  quiet  talks,  the  gay  bits 
of  conversation  at  the  table,  on  the  lawn,  the 
books  she  had  lent  him,  those  he  had  lent  her, 
the  few  rides  and  drives — one  by  one  they  came 
and  went,  and  better,  a  thousand  times  better, 
during  them  had  he  learned  to  know  her  than  he 
knew  the  woman  he  had  asked  to  be  his  wife. 

Was  that  true?     He  stirred  uneasily.     For 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

some  time  he  had  tried  to  imagine  he  did  not 
know  Isabel  McLean,  but  did  he  not  know 
her  very  well?  Her  beauty  did  not  blind  him 
to  certain  other  qualities,  and  if  she  were  ca- 
pable of  loving  deeply  he  was  incapable  of  in- 
spiring such  love  in  her;  and  should  they  have 
married,  the  house  in  which  they  would  have 
made  their  home  could  never  have  been  a  house 
of  happiness. 

Something  that  had  hitherto  been  kept  closely 
drawn  was  sharply  pulled  aside,  and,  leaning 
forward,  his  face  was  buried  in  his  hands.  For 
some  minutes  he  made  no  effort  to  hold  back 
truth  that  was  very  bitter,  truth  that  was  dark- 
ening what  might  have  been  of  sweetness  be- 
yond dreaming,  and  then  he  sat  up. 

Surely  the  god  that  squares  things  had  been 
busy  with  him  of  late.  For  his  broken  health 
he  might  be  pardoned;  but  for  this  other,  this 
beyond-pardon  thing  that  he  had  done — 
When  he  had  asked  Isabel  McLean  to  marry 
him  he  had  believed  himself  honest  in  thinking 
he  cared  for  her.  Certainly  he  had  cared  for 
no  one  else,  and  love  of  which  one  reads  in 
song  and  story  was  not  the  sort  one  met  in 
ordinary  lives,  and  he  did  not  look  for  it  in  his. 
A  negative  life  he  might  have  lived,  but  that 
was  before  he  knew.  With  eyes  unseeing  he 
140 


LUMPS    AND    BUMPS 

stared  into  the  darkness.     He  could  not  live  it 
now.     He  would  not  live  it  now. 

The  carriage  stopped.  Getting  out,  Colburn 
handed  the  driver  some  money  and  went  up  the 
steps  of  his  cottage.  Opening  his  door,  he 
turned  on  the  lights  and  saw  on  the  book-piled 
table  a  letter  addressed  in  a  handwriting  un- 
seen before,  and  the  blood  went  to  his  face.  He 
picked  it  up  and  held  it  to  the  light,  then,  tearing 
open  its  envelope,  looked  at  its  signature.  It 
was  as  he  thought.  It  was  signed  Eduard 
Grannere. 


XII 

ADMISSION   AND   ADVICE 

FOR  some  minutes  the  letter  was  not  read. 
Taking  off  his  top-coat  and  hat,  Colburn 
came  back  to  the  table,  drew  up  his  chair,  and, 
leaning  back  in  it,  held  the  letter  tightly  in  his 
hands.  Was  he  to  go  or  stay? 

Very  quickly  he  had  understood  why  Taska 
should  love  the  quaint  and  shabbily  dressed  old 
gentleman,  with  his  white  hair  and  skin  as  soft 
and  warmly  colored  as  a  girl's.  His  face  was 
clean-shaven,  his  mouth  well  shaped,  and  his 
brow  fine  and  high ;  but  it  was  his  eyes  which 
drew  and  held,  his  shrewd,  kindly,  penetrating 
eyes  which  saw  through  the  surface  down  to  the 
soul,  and  which  had  learned  to  look  at  life 
steadily  and  with  a  friendly  smile. 

Taska  had  introduced  him  the  day  he  came. 
He  liked  the  way  he  shook  hands;  and  that 
afternoon  during  her  rest-hour  they  had  talked 
together,  and  he  liked  the  way  he  talked.  A 
country  doctor,  he  had  wondered  what  he 
142 


ADMISSION   AND   ADVICE 

thought  of  this  last  word  in  modern  sanitarium- 
ism,  but  if  impressed  or  appalled  he  gave  no 
sign.  Under  the  quiet  poise  and  keen  interest 
in  all  about  him  he  had  seen  the  whimsical 
twitch  of  his  mouth,  seen  the  shrewd  eyes 
twinkle,  and  he  had  understood  that  nothing 
was  being  missed  by  them;  but  if  conclusions 
were  reached,  he  kept  them  to  himself  and 
made  no  comment. 

To-night  he  had  gone  away  with  Taska,  leav- 
ing a  memory  of  something  distinctive  and 
individual,  something  clear  -  visioned  and  old- 
world,  and  yet  full  of  understanding  of  the  life  of 
to-day;  and  he  wished,  as  he  had  never  wished 
to  do  anything  before,  that  he,  too,  could  have 
gone  with  him. 

Of  his  people  at  Piping  Forest  he  had  spoken 
readily.  He  could  only  take  in  a  few  at  the 
time,  and  they  were  an  oddly  assorted  group. 
One  or  two  city  men,  wrecked  by  the  weight  of 
their  accumulations,  three  or  four  worn-out 
women,  and  as  many  mountaineers  as  the  cot- 
tages could  hold  composed  his  family.  Taska 
had  been  to  Piping  Forest  frequently,  but  never 
as  a  patient.  She  had  ever  been  a  borrowed 
daughter,  and  he  had  come  to  take  her  home. 

Unfolding  the  letter,  Colburn  held  it  to  the 
light.  The  writing  was  the  fine,  old-fashioned 


kind  that  was  the  style  of  his  grandfather's 
day.  It  made  him  think,  though  why  he  did 
not  know,  of  shoe-buckles  and  brocaded  vests, 
of  knee-breeches  and  of  ruffled  shirts.  The 
Doctor  himself  had  made  him  think  of  such 
things,  and  yet  his  coat  was  worn  and  shabby, 
and  his  cravat,  a  plain  white  string,  was 
crooked  and  carelessly  tied.  He  opened  the 
letter.  There  was  no  formal  beginning,  and  as 
he  read  it  seemed  but  the  continuation  of  a 
conversation  held  the  night  before. 

I  will  try  and  arrange  for  you  to  come,  Mr.  Colburn. 
Just  now  there  is  no  room.  But  should  Mr.  Whyte  or 
Mr.  Wiley  leave,  your  application  will  be  considered  next. 
I  don't  usually  take  people  so  well  as  you  seem  to  be, 
but  Taska  tells  me  you  are  to  be  married,  and  she  insists 
that  I  must  try  and  get  you  well  that  the  marriage  be 
not  delayed.  I  do  not  believe  you  need  fear  a  long 
delay.  When  the  way  is  open  I  will  write  you. 

Sincerely, 

EDUARD  GRANNERE. 

Slowly  Colburn  folded  the  letter,  put  it  in  its 
envelope,  and  the  envelope  in  his  pocket,  then 
got  up,  and,  as  his  habit  when  restless,  began 
to  walk  backward  and  forward  the  length  of  the 
room.  He  had  an  uncontrollable  impulse  to 
laugh  out  loud,  but  the  laugh  would  have  been 
more  bitter  than  a  cry.  Miss  Laird  insisted 
144 


ADMISSION   AND   ADVICE 

that  he  be  made  well  that  his  marriage  be  not 
delayed.  She  had  interceded  for  him  in  order 
that  he  might  marry  another  woman.  He 
would  not  marry  another  woman.  Such  a  mar- 
riage would  not  be  marriage.  He  would  tell 
Isabel  the  truth. 

Would  he?  He  stopped  his  walk  and  stared 
out  of  the  window  at  the  shadows  on  the  snow 
cast  by  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees.  No. 
He  could  not  tell  her  the  truth.  Happiness  or 
honor  admitted  of  no  toss-up.  Back  of  him 
were  men  and  women  who  could  yield  one,  but 
not  live  without  the  other;  and,  though  silence 
was  neither  just  nor  fair,  the  code  forbade  a 
man  telling  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  engaged 
that  he  loved  another.  At  the  code,  so  called, 
he  had  sometimes  snapped  his  fingers,  but  he 
could  not  snap  them  now.  He  could  tell  Isabel 
that  marriage  was  a  remote  possibility,  again 
could  offer  to  release  her ;  but  he  could  not  go  to 
Piping  Forest  until  the  engagement  was  broken 
by  her. 

For  some  moments  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  making  strong  effort  to  keep  back 
the  surging  impulse  to  break  from  the  barriers 
of  custom  and  convention  and  make  a  man's 
fight  for  the  joy  and  gladness  of  life,  for  the  love 
of  a  woman  who  had  made  him  know  what  life 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

might  mean;  but  after  a  while  he  came  back 
to  his  chair,  sat  down  in  it  close  to  the  table, 
and  drew  toward  him  paper  and  pen  and  ink 
and  began  to  write. 

When  his  letter  was  finished  he  sealed, 
stamped,  and  addressed  it;  then,  with  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees,  he  repeated  to  him- 
self the  words  just  written.  Had  he  been 
honest?  It  was  the  supreme  thing  he  required 
of  himself  and  others,  but  to  be  honest  meant 
to  be  brutal.  No,  he  had  hardly  been  honest. 
He  was  sorry  for  Isabel.  Her  disappointment 
at  his  refusal  to  buy  the  Colesworth  house  at 
its  advanced  price  had  been  distinct  and  un- 
concealed, but  if  she  were  marrying  a  house  he 
was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  go  with  it,  and  it 
was  well  that  she  should  know  it,  and  at  once. 

Lifting  his  head,  he  took  out  the  letter  of 
Dr.  Grannere  and  read  it  again.  The  night 
before  he  had  asked  if  he,  too,  might  come  to 
Piping  Forest  he  had  slept  but  little.  His 
desire  to  go  was  overmastering;  but  was  it 
right,  was  it  wise,  was  it  honorable?  In  the 
gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  when  truth  is  clearest 
and  verities  are  stripped  of  sham  and  subterfuge, 
he  had  known  he  should  not  go,  and  before  the 
day  was  done  he  had  asked  boldly  if  he  might. 

A  knock  at  his  cottage  door  startled  him, 
146 


ADMISSION    AND   ADVICE 

Going  into  the  hall,  he  hesitated,  hand  on  the 
knob.  He  could  talk  to  no  one  to-night. 
"Who  is  it?"  he  asked,  and  his  voice  was  not 
warm  in  welcome.  "Who  is  it?" 

"Let  me  in!"  A  foot  outside  stamped  im- 
patiently. "I'm  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  if 
you  are  not.  Do  you  think  it's  warm  out  here  ?" 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Mr.  McKenzie, 
fur  capped  and  coated,  came  inside,  hands  deep 
in  his  pockets,  and  in  his  face  pinched  with  pain 
was  pitiful  appeal. 

"Couldn't  stand  it  by  myself,  Colburn.  Had 
to  come  over.  Got  a  drink  of  any  kind  any- 
where around?" 

Colburn  shook  his  head.  "Sorry,"  he  said, 
and  pulled  out  a  chair  for  his  shivering  guest. 
"Never  keep  anything  of  the  sort.  I'll  get 
some  to-morrow." 

"Damn  to-morrow.     I  want  it  now!" 

Two  shriveled  little  hands  held  the  back  of 
the  chair  with  a  nervous  grip.  "She — she's 
gone,  Colburn." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  went  to  the  station  to  see 
her  off." 

"You  did!"  Something  of  the  old  snap  was 
in  the  thin,  sharp  voice,  then  the  fur  cap  was 
thrown  on  the  table  and  the  fur  coat  opened 
at  the  throat.  "What  did  you  do  that  for?" 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

"Because  I  wanted  to." 

"No  reason  at  all.  You  had  better  not  have 
gone." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence;  then  Mr. 
McKenzie  sat  down  in  the  chair  near  the  table, 
but  his  eyes  were  fastened  on  Colburn,  and  in 
them  was  sudden,  solemn  fear. 

"Don't,"  he  said — "don't  ever  try  to  see  her 
again.  I  tell  you,  man,  you  are  not  made  to 
love  or  suffer  lightly.  She  will  never  marry. 
No  woman  should  in  whom  there  is  a  hint 
of  ill  health,  and  she  means  what  she  says. 
Put  her  out  of  your  life.  Listen!"  He  leaned 
forward.  "I  loved  her  mother,  and  she  loved 
another  man,  and  I  have  lived,  as  I  shall  die,  in 
loneliness  that  could  not  compromise.  Forget 
her !  Forget  her,  man !' ' 

For  a  while  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel 
alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  room;  then  Col- 
burn  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  have  remembered  because  forgetting 
was  beyond  your  power.  It  is  also  beyond 
mine!" 

He  turned  away  and  pulled  down  the  shade 
at  the  window  across  the  room,  and  again  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  alone  broke  its  stillness. 


XIII 

PIPING    FOREST 

A  PERSON  who  doesn't  get  thrilly  when 
it  snows  must  be — " 

"A  coalless,  woodless,  bloodless  person! 
Good  many  of  each  kind  in  the  world.  Looks 
as  if  we  were  in  for  the  real  thing  this 
time." 

"I  hope  we  are.  I  mean  I  would  hope  it  if 
it  weren't  for  those  Haskins  children." 

Standing  near  the  edge  of  the  little  plateau 
on  top  of  the  mountain,  Taska  Laird  stooped 
down  and,  molding  a  handful  of  snow,  with  a 
swift  movement  sent  it  down  the  valley  toward 
a  cabin  buried  in  a  clump  of  trees. 

"They  ought  to  be  called  'The  Sifters,'  for 
helping  them  is  about  as  satisfactory  as  trying 
to  fill  a  sieve  with  water.  In  their  system  of 
life  the  head  has  no  part.  Look  at  that  stove- 
pipe sticking  between  those  two  logs!  Why 
didn't  they  cut  a  hole  instead  of  pushing  it  out 
that  way?  Some  people  are  hopeless.  You 
11  149 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

can't  do  anything  with  them,  and  it's  no  use 
trying. 

"'Beat  it  with  clay  and  clap  it  with  mud, 
And  you'll  carry  your  water  safe  away.' 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  Ruffle's  sifter, 
and  of  the  little  bird  that  told  her  how  water 
could  be  kept  in  it?  It's  the  one  the  children 
love  best." 

Into  the  face  stung  into  rich  color  by  the 
biting  wind  Dr.  Grannere's  eyes  looked  whim- 
sically, and  then  he  nodded  toward  the  cabin 
down  in  the  woods. 

"Nobody  is  hopeless,  child.  Some  just  take 
longer  than  others,  and  different  treatments 
must  be  tried.  Behind  those  Sifters  are  cen- 
turies of  ignorance  and  shiftlessness  and  iso- 
lation, and  no  standards  of  life  save  the  primi- 
tive ones  of  their  own  making.  It  isn't  just 
that  class  that  have  the  holes  and  cracks  in 
their  characters.  We  all  have  them,  and  the 
job  of  mending  is  no  jollier  for  us  than  for  the 
others.  Did  I  tell  you  Mr.  Whyte  is  going  to 
build  a  library  next  to  the  school-house?  Build, 
furnish,  and  fill  it  with  books." 

"No!"  Taska  turned,  and  in  her  voice  was 
amazement  and  incredulous  delight.  "I  don't 
believe  it!" 

150 


PIPING    FOREST 

"He  is.     Told  me  so  to-day." 

"And  I've  been  thinking  him  a  stingy  old 
thing  ever  since  I  got  here.  Stingy  as — 

"He  is  stingy."  Dr.  Grannere's  merry  lit- 
tle eyes  gleamed  gaily.  "When  he  first  came, 
taking  his  teeth  out  one  by  one  wouldn't  have 
hurt  so  much  as  parting  with  his  money,  but 
he's  got  infected !  He  is  going  away  next  week 
to  get  plans  and  make  arrangements.  It's  a 
health  germ  that  landed  this  time." 

"And  Mr.  Colburn?"  Taska  looked  across 
the  gap  and  up  at  the  leaden  sky,  and  the  fast- 
falling  snowflakes  for  a  moment  paled  the  glow 
of  her  perfect  skin.  "Is  he  coming  to  take  his 
place?" 

"Colburn?"  Dr.  Grannere  looked  puzzled. 
"Oh,  that  young  fellow  at  Bay  wood.  I  did 
promise  him  I'd  write  when  there  was  a  va- 
cancy; but  he  wouldn't  stay  at  a  place  of  this 
kind.  He's  suppressed  energy  and  action,  and 
the  mountain-top  would  not  be  to  his  taste. 
He  is  meant  for  a  big  city  where  his  organizing 
powers  could  find  employment.  I  liked  him, 
but  for  the  moment  I'd  forgotten  his  name." 

Taska  made  no  comment,  and  presently  she 
turned  around.  "I  think  we'd  better  go  in. 
You've  been  out  for  hours.  Are  you  sure  your 
shoes  are  not  damp?" 


"Quite  sure — that  is,  I  don't  think  they  are. 
Look  behind  you,  Taska !  They're  all  at  work, 
the  genii  and  fairies  and  magicians  and  wiz- 
ards, and  they're  working  well  to-night.  Piping 
Forest  is  the  castle  and  we  are — 

"The  court."  Taska  laughed  and  drew  in 
her  breath.  It  was  magnificent.  Valley  and 
ridge  and  spur  and  peak  were  wrapped  in  down 
too  dear  for  royal  robes,  and  trees  and  shrubs 
bent  low  in  brilliant,  dazzling  decorations.  In 
the  distance,  serene  and  stately,  the  big  house 
and  the  little  cottages  seemed  made  of  marble, 
and  over  earth  and  sky  and  in  the  air  soft 
silence  brooded. 

By  her  side  the  master  of  it  all  stood  sil- 
houetted against  the  flake-filled  grayness  of  ap- 
proaching night,  and  in  his  soft  hat  and  old- 
fashioned  cloak,  which  fell  in  full  folds  from 
his  shoulders,  he  was  so  fittingly  a  part  of  it 
that  as  she  watched  him  a  restless  wonder 
filled  her  heart. 

How  had  he  reached  them,  won  them, 
earned  them,  this  peace  and  patience  and  cheery 
interest  that  was  his  ?  And  why  couldn't  they  be 
hers?  Keep  herself  as  active'  as  she  would,  she 
could  not  keep  back  what  she  had  once  believed 
was  settled  safely  and  forever.  Here  in  this 
quiet,  secluded  place  the  surge  of  life  was  calling 
152 


PIPING   FOREST 

as  it  had  never  called  before,  and  of  late  she 
found  herself  resisting  the  acceptances  that 
had  been  won  after  battles  sharp  and  hard. 
Did  he  ever  want  to  go  again  into  the  world  and 
do  a  man's  part,  as  she  wanted  to  go  and  do  a 
woman's?  Not  now,  perhaps,  but  had  he  ever 
wanted  to  go  since  first  he  came?  Out  in  the 
big  world  was  so  much  to  do,  so  much  to  delight 
in.  Had  he  ever  wished  to  enter  it  again? 

There  was  cause  for  his  changing  sharply  and 
suddenly  the  course  of  his  life.  From  the  stir 
and  movement  and  gaiety  of  great  cities  to 
the  stillness,  the  slowness,  the  dullness  of  a 
home  on  the  mountain-top  he  must  have  come 
with  a  burden  which  could  not  be  borne  in  the 
presence  of  others,  and  here  he  had  found  peace, 
and  found  it  at  no  sacrifice  of  spirit,  no  surren- 
der to  mere  ease  and  idleness.  What  was  that 
cause? 

She  wanted  peace,  but  she  wanted  much  be- 
sides. In  the  end,  after  the  certain  sorrows  and 
uncertain  joys  of  life,  it  might  be  enough,  but  it 
was  not  yet  enough.  She  wanted — 

"The  court  must  hurry!"  Dr.  Grannere's 
voice  recalled  her  from  the  forbidden  outreach 
of  her  thoughts.  "I  was  wondering  what 
might  happen  if  another  idea  should  get  into 
Mr.  Whyte's  heart.  It  was  his  heart,  you 


THE   HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

know,  the  idea  got  in.  You  can't  do  much  with 
a  head  after  it's  sixty  in  the  way  of  new  ideas. 
His  little  case  of  breakdown  and  his  big  one  of 
Ego-itis  had  made  him  forget  he  had  a  heart. 
He  hates  theories,  but  he  likes  to  see  things 
work,  and  he  is  getting  interested.  He  is  lonely 
and  selfish,  and  never  guessed  it."  He  turned 
to  the  girl  beside  him.  "What's  the  matter, 
child?  You're  a  thousand  miles  away!" 

"Am  I?"  Taska  slipped  her  hand  through 
the  Doctor's  arm,  and  quickened  her  steps  as 
best  she  could  in  the  heavy  snow.  "  I'm  a  very 
rude  person.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  so  far  away, 
and  I'm  glad  Mr.  Whyte  is  getting  human. 
Maybe  if  he  sees  how  well  the  boys  are  doing 
he'll  help  with  Practice  House.  Minerva  Has- 
kins  made  the  bread  yesterday  for  lunch,  and 
you  could  eat  it." 

' '  Beat  it  with  clay !' '  The  Doctor's  hand  pat- 
ted the  one  on  his  arm,  and  his  eyes  turned 
to  the  face  by  his  side. 

"About  Mr.  Colburn,"  he  said,  "do  you  think 
he'd  better  come?" 

"If  you  promised  him." 

' '  I  promised  at  your  request.  You  told  me  he 
disliked  Baywood  even  more  than  you  did,  and 
that  he  was  to  be  made  well  were  it  in  my  power 
to  make.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not. 


PIPING    FOREST 

I've  never  examined  him.  But  he  isn't  going 
to  be  married.  I  remember  now  he  wrote  me 
some  weeks  ago,  shortly  after  you  came,  I  think. 
He  still  wanted  very  much  to  come,  but  said  I 
must  understand  his  marriage  was  not  to  be  a 
factor  that  might  make  for  sympathy.  His 
engagement  was  broken.  His  desire  was  to  get 
well,  to  try  our  system.  Take  care,  child! 
Under  the  snow  are  many  stumps  that  trip. 
If  I  had  not  partially  promised  I  do  not  think 
I'd  let  him  come." 

"Why  not?"  Taska's  eyes  were  looking 
straight  ahead.  "You  said  he  was  a  man  of 
force,  of  ability,  the  kind  of  man  the  world 
needs  if  he  were  properly  directed.  Isn't  he  as 
well  worth  saving  as  one  of  these  mountain- 
eers?" 

"When  did  I  say  that?"  The  eyes  that 
saw  things  were  turned  upon  the  girl  by  his 
side,  and  over  the  top  of  his  glasses  he 
looked  at  her,  first  quizzically  and  then 
with  questioning.  ' '  When  did  I  say  that, 
child?" 

"On  the  train  the  night  we  left  Bay- 
wood?" 

"Did  I?" 

For  a  moment  only  the  crunching  of  their 
footsteps  on  the  fine  crust  forming  on  the  snow 
155 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

broke  the  silence;  then  the  Doctor  took  off  his 
glasses. 

"I  remember  I  was  impressed  with  the  man. 
He  seemed  the  sort  you  could  put  your  hand 
on,  and  when  you  turned  your  back  you  need 
not  fear.  A  selfish  man,  I  imagine,  not  yet 
interested  in  much  outside  his  own  affairs,  and 
ambitious  —  too  ambitious,  I'm  afraid.  I've 
been  so  busy  of  late  that  I  had  forgotten  him. 
I  owe  him  something  for  that.  Must  I  let 
him  come?" 

"Did  you  ever  go  back  on  your  word?" 

' '  I  said  I  would  consider  his  application  next. 
I  doubt  if  he  is  seriously  sick.  There  are  many 
waiting  who  apparently  need  to  come  far  more 
than  he." 

Taska  drew  her  hand  from  the  Doctor's  arm 
and,  stooping,  picked  up  her  muff,  which  had 
fallen  at  her  feet.  Ahead  of  them  through  the 
windows  of  the  big  house  the  dancing  firelight 
could  be  seen  in  some  rooms,  and  in  others  the 
glow  of  lamps  that  burned  with  steady  flame. 
From  the  pillared  veranda  a  lean  and  clean- 
limbed hound,  hearing  them,  bounded  forward 
with  eager,  joyous  leaps. 

At  the  steps  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"Shall  I  let  him  come,  Taska?" 

Hands  on  the  dog's  head,  she  smoothed  it 
156 


PIPING    FOREST 

with  friendly  fingers.  "It  is  your  house,  dear 
Doctor-man.  You  must  not  ask  me  who  your 
guests  shall  be!"  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
looked  into  his.  "Were  it  my  house  I  would 
let  him  come." 


XIV 

NEW   QUARTERS 

HE  glanced  around  the  large  square  room 
with  its  four  big  windows,  its  old-fashioned 
furnishings,  its  blazing  logs  upon  the  hearth, 
then  went  over  to  the  capacious  mahogany 
wardrobe,  opened  it,  and  looked  inside. 

Dominicker,  one  of  the  negro  boys  on  the 
place,  had  been  sent  up  in  the  afternoon  to  help 
him  unpack  and  put  away  his  clothes.  In  the 
midst  of  this  Colburn  had  been  called  down  to 
Dr.  Grannere's  office,  leaving  to  Dominicker's 
arrangement  the  contents  of  trunk  and  bags 
and  box  of  books;  and  it  was  well,  perhaps,  to 
take  a  glance  around  and  see  if  said  contents 
were  properly  in  place. 

At  Baywood  one  dressed  for  dinner  as  one 
did  at  the  large  and  showy  hotels  filled  with  the 
visitors  from  small  cities  and  towns  who  were 
intent  on  demonstrating  their  familiarity  with 
the  usages  of  polite  society ;  but  at  Piping  Forest 
it  would  not  be  required,  and  with  strong  satis- 
158 


NEW   QUARTERS 

faction  the  two  evening  suits  were  put  on  back 
hooks  and  out  of  the  way. 

Closing  the  door,  he  came  back  to  the  fire 
and  drew  his  chair  close  to  it.  Away  from  it 
the  room  was  very  cold.  His  bed — he  turned 
and  looked  behind  him. 

"A  house  in  itself,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  and 
was  glad  to  see  there  were  no  frills  on  its  four 
carved  posts,  and  glad  also  that  its  covering  was 
turned  down  and  a  step  was  at  its  side.  "It's 
worse  than  was  Grandmother  Lud well's!  I 
prefer  the  new  kind,  but  any  kind  will  be  good 
for  sleep  to-night." 

Slipping  down  farther  in  his  chair  that  his 
back  might  be  protected  from  draughts  that 
came  he  knew  not  where,  he  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  to  keep  them  warm,  his  feet  on  the 
fender  to  get  them  hot,  and  for  some  time  gazed 
in  the  dancing,  curling  flames. 

He  was  strangely  tired.  For  days  he  had 
been  tired.  The  night  he  had  received  Dr. 
Grannere's  letter  he  had  slept  but  little,  and 
in  the  early  morning  he  had  got  up  and  gone 
out  and  tried  to  face  fairly  the  situation  in 
which  he  found  himself.  He  was  no  longer  en- 
gaged to  Isabel  McLean.  Her  letter  in  answer 
to  his,  written  the  night  Taska  left  Baywood, 
had  been  characteristic.  In  his  heart  was  no 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

criticism  of  her,  however.  He  had  been  no  less 
guilty  than  she  in  forgetting  there  is  but  one 
basis  of  happiness  where  marriage  is  concerned, 
and  both  were  fortunate  in  escaping  a  rela- 
tionship which  could  promise  little  but  danger 
and  disaster.  Doubtless  she  was  as  relieved 
as  he. 

Bending  forward,  he  lifted  a  fallen  log  on  the 
andirons  and  threw  on  top  of  it  a  fresh  one 
from  the  box  at  his  side,  and  again,  with  nar- 
rowed eyes,  watched  the  flames  catch  and  curl. 

He  had  not  answered  Dr.  Grannere's  letter 
at  once.  For  two  days  he  struggled  with  the 
desire  to  go  and  the  fear  of  putting  himself 
where  resistance  to  telling  Taska  of  his  love 
might  be  impossible,  and  then  he  wrote  Dr. 
Grannere  he  would  come.  The  next  morning 
he  went  to  see  Cricket. 

In  the  blazing  logs  the  boy's  face  came  to 
him  as  he  saw  it  in  the  dining-room  of  the 
Baywood  hotel,  where  he  had  taken  him  for 
lunch  in  order  to  tell  him  of  his  going.  And 
there  he  first  asked  him  how  he  would  like  to 
go  away  to  school,  go  where  he  could  prepare 
himself  for  college,  if  later  he  should  want  to 
go  to  college. 

' '  Go  away  to  school  ?"  Cricket's  eyes  popped, 
and  the  spoonful  of  ice-cream  was  suspended 
1 60 


NEW    QUARTERS 

on  its  way  to  his  mouth.  "Get  on  a  railroad 
train  and  go  away  to  school  and  stop  milking? 
Me — you  mean  me?" 

"I  mean  you."  Colburn  buttered  a  bit  of 
cracker  carefully.  "I  know  a  pretty  good  pre- 
paratory school  for  boys,  and  if— 

The  spoon  splashed  in  the  plate  of  cream, 
and  Cricket  rose  from  his  chair  and  flung  wide 
his  arms. 

"I  told  Teenie  some  day  I'd  get  away  and 
not  live  all  my  life  in  a  tombstone  place! 
And  I  can  get  to  be  somebody  if  I  go  to  school, 
if  I  haven't  got  any  blood  kin,  can't  I?"  He 
stopped .  ' '  Does  Miss  Taska  know  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  I  think  she  will  be  glad  to  know. 
I've  heard  her  say  you'd  make  a  man  of  your- 
self if  you  had  a  chance." 

"Did  she  say  that?"  Cricket's  arms  swung 
up  in  the  air.  "And  me  with  something  you 
can't  tame  in  my  mouth!" 

Colburn  looked  up.     "Something  what?" 

"Something  you  can't  tame."  Cricket's 
tongue  was  projected  to  its  fullest  length. 
"Mis'  Lemmon  read  it  to  me  out  of  the  Bible 
the  other  night  after  she'd  made  me  wash  my 
mouth  with  kerosene  oil  and  brown  soap.  She 
made  me  learn  the  words  by  heart.  St.  James 
wrote  'em.  These  are  them :  '  The  tongue  no 
161 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

man  can  tame.'  I  won't  go  till  you  go,  will 
I,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

"You  ought  to  get  in  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
could  take  you  with  me,  I  suppose.  I  am  going 
away  myself  to-morrow." 

Cricket  sat  down  as  if  shot  from  the  back. 
"Going — away — to-morrow!"  His  hands  fell 
limply  on  the  table.  "Going  away  to— 

"Morrow.  Yes."  Colburn  spoke  gaily. 
"Mrs.  Lemmon  will  have  to  hurry."  He 
stopped.  Cricket's  face  was  hidden  in  his 
hands. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Joy  had 
been  swallowed  in  dismay.  At  first  thought 
school  had  meant  fixed  nearness  to  his  un- 
ashamedly adored  friend,  and  now  to  have  him 
leave  without  warning  was  too  sudden  a  change 
from  sweet  to  bitter  to  be  taken  unmoved. 
Presently  he  looked  up,  and  then  away. 

"Are  you  going  to — her,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

The  glass  of  water  in  Colburn 's  hand  was  put 
down  untouched,  and  in  his  face  color  crept  to 
the  temples. 

"I  am  going  to  Piping  Forest,  where  she  is," 
he  said.  "The  Doctor  there,  Miss  Laird  thinks, 
is  the  best  in  the  country  for  Tubers.  There 
will  be  things  to  talk  about  before  I  leave. 
Come  up  this  afternoon  about  five.  If  Mrs. 
162 


NEW   QUARTERS 

Lemmon  can't  get  you  ready  I  might  meet  you 
later  and  take  you  on."  He  pushed  back  his 
chair.  "I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  old  man, 
but—" 

"I'm  through."  The  unfinished  cream  was 
looked  at  with  indecision,  then  Cricket  rose,  and 
together  they  went  out  into  the  keen  and  cutting 
air. 

That  afternoon  Cricket  appeared  on  time, 
and,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  he 
twirled  his  cap  nervously  on  the  end  of  his 
finger,  then  dropped  it  on  the  floor.  In  his  eyes 
was  something  that  made  Colburn  understand 
even  before  he  spoke,  and  he  turned  away  lest  he 
give  sign  of  seeing  what  he  knew  he  must  not  see. 

"I  come  to  tell  you  I  can't  go,  Mr.  Colburn." 
Hands  were  clasped  behind,  and  fingers  dug 
nervously  into  the  palms.  "I'm  awful  much 
obliged  to  you  and  I  won't  forget,  but  I  can't 
go.  'Tain't  Mis'  Lemmon.  It's  Teenie.  She 
ain't  got  anybody  but  me  to  tell  her  things,  and 
to  see  things  for  her,  and  to  read  to  her,  and 
hold  her  up  when  the  breath  won't  come. 
She  ain't  got  any  own  mother  and  father. 
Mis'  Lemmon's  her  step-mother,  and  she  don't 
understand,  not  having  any  of  her  own  but 
just  two  husbands,  and  I'm  all  she's  got  to 
keep  her  spirits  up." 

163 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"You  mean — you're  going  to  stay  in  Bay- 
wood?     Mean  you're  not — ' 

"I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  I  ain't  slept 
a  wink  for  thinking  about  it,  and  I  want  to  go 
so  bad  I  ain't  got  any  sense.  But  I  can't 
leave  her  all  alone  by  herself.  I  can't,  Mr. 
Colburn!  Mis'  Lemmon  does  a  lot  for  her— 
clothes,  and  food,  and  fixings,  and  all  that— 
but  she  wouldn't  have  anybody  to  wait  for  if 
I  go,  and  she  can  hear  me  whistling  long  before 
anybody  else  can  hear.  I  haven't  told  her. 
She'd  say  I  must  go,  because  I'm  going  to  live 
and  she  ain't — she's  been  awful  bad  off  lately— 
but  I  can't  go.  I'd  be  wondering  if  she  needed 
me,  and  nobody'd  read  to  her  when  she  can't 
sleep,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  myself.  And  you 
know  I  thank  you,  don't  you,  Mr.  Colburn? 
You  know  I  want- 
Under  the  table  Cricket  disappeared,  control 
no  longer  being  possible,  and  not  for  some  time 
could  Colburn  disentangle  the  huddled  little 
heap  which  fought  valiantly  to  keep  back  that 
of  which  it  was  ashamed.  But  when,  an  hour 
later,  he  walked  to  the  gate  of  the  sanitarium 
with  him  nature  had  partly  asserted  itself,  and 
their  good  night  had  something  of  its  usual 
cheer.  Taking  an  envelope  out  of  his  pocket, 
Colburn  slipped  it  into  Cricket's. 
164 


NEW   QUARTERS 

"When  you  get  home  put  that  away,  old 
man."  His  hand  for  a  moment  was  laid  lightly 
on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "Some  time  you  may 
find  use  for  it ;  and  remember  you're  to  write  to 
me.  You  have  my  address  all  right?" 

"I  have  it."  Cricket's  voice  was  again  un- 
certain. From  under  the  red  curly  hair  the 
big  blue  eyes  looked  into  the  gray  ones  of  his 
friend. 

"It  hurt  worser  'n — worserer  than  I  thought 
anything  could  hurt  when  she  went,  Mr. 
Colburn,  but  ain't  nothing  ever  hurt  like  this." 

Such  a  little  while  ago  that  had  been,  but 
such  a  long  while  ago  it  seemed  to-night ! 

Yesterday  the  shabbiness  and  untidiness, 
the  few  lounging  white  men,  adepts  in  spitting 
tobacco  juice,  and  the  lazy,  good-natured  negroes 
at  the  little  station  of  the  little  Virginia  town, 
where  connection  was  to  be  made  with  the 
branch  road  which  would  take  him  to  the  junc- 
tion where  Dr.  Grannere  had  met  him,  were  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  cleanliness  and  orderli- 
ness of  the  small  New  England  stations  just  left ; 
and  with  something  of  irritation  he  had  walked 
up  and  down  the  platform,  with  its  broken 
planks  and  accumulated  ash  piles,  and  wondered 
why  such  things  should  be. 
12  165 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

At  the  junction  the  Doctor's  simple,  kindly, 
gracious  greeting  had  driven  out  all  other 
thought,  however ;  and  when  in  the  old-fashioned 
sleigh  he  had  been  tucked  in  comfortably  and 
they  had  started  on  the  seven-mile  drive,  over 
winding  roads  that  were  rough  and  uncertain, 
to  Piping  Forest  on  the  mountain-top,  he  won- 
dered if  he  were  himself,  were  the  man  who  had 
hated  the  stillness  and  smallness  of  Baywood. 
Baywood  was  big  and  busy  to  this — and  it  was 
to  this  he  had  gladly,  eagerly,  impatiently  come. 
He  turned  to  the  man  at  his  side. 

"You  are  good  to  take  me  in,  Doctor.  I  am 
very  grateful.  I  need  not  tell  you,  perhaps,  but— 

"Grateful?"  The  kindly,  cheery  little  eyes 
under  the  white  brows  looked  into  those  of  the 
younger  man.  "I'm  glad  to  have  you,  my  son, 
and  when  you  are  a  strong,  well  man  again  we 
will  all  be  grateful.  And  that's  what  we're  to 
do.  We're  to  get  you  strong  and  well." 

The  logs  no  longer  blazed.  Deep  in  their  center 
glowed  rich  and  red  their  heart  of  oak,  and,  lean- 
ing forward,  Colburn  gazed  steadily  into  it. 

' '  Strong  and  well !"  His  face  fell  in  his  hands. 
For  her  sake  he  would  dare,  endure,  surrender 
whatever  love  required,  if  only  in  return  her 
love  be  given. 


XV 

A   TWILIGHT   TALK 

STAMPING  the  snow  from  her  shoes,  Taska 
Laird  held  out  first  one  foot   and   then 
the  other  to  the  young  darky  standing  on  the 
porch. 

"Take  off  my  rubbers,  Dominicker,  and  put 
them  near  the  stove  in  the  hall.  You'd  better 
let  him  do  the  same  with  yours,  Mr.  Colburn." 

Colburn  laughed.  "I  don't  think  he  could 
get  mine  off .  Are  you  going  in  the  library  ?  If 
so,  I  will  bring  you  the  book  of  which  we've  been 
speaking." 

"I  will  be  in  the  library  about  half  past  five. 
It's  four  now,  isn't  it?" 

Colburn  took  out  his  watch.     ' '  Four-fifteen. ' ' 

"Then  it  will  be  five-fifteen  before  I  come 
down,  possibly  six."  She  smiled  and  without 
turning  in  his  direction  went  into  the  big  hall 
with  its  beautiful  stairway,  and  up  the  bare 
steps  to  her  room,  and  in  the  latter  she  closed 
the  door  and  locked  it. 
167 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

Slipping  out  of  the  fur  coat,  she  laid  it  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  and,  changing  her  dress  and 
shoes  for  kimono  and  slippers,  drew  the  couch 
to  the  open  fire  and  curled  up  on  it.  For  an 
hour  she  must  lie  down,  and  then  she  would 
dress  for  the  evening.  She  wasn't  tired,  al- 
though since  their  early  dinner  she  had  been 
tramping  with  Mr.  Colburn  up  and  down  the 
mountain  to  the  school-house,  to  the  boys'  farm, 
to  the  girls'  Practice  House,  and  to  the  homes 
of  two  or  three  of  the  Doctor's  mountaineer 
patients;  and  at  the  memory  of  his  expression 
when  the  first  house  was  visited  she  laughed 
half  aloud. 

"So  many  worlds,  so  many  people,  and  he 
knows  so  little,  so  very  little  of  them." 

Hands  under  her  cheek,  she  looked  at  the 
curling  flames,  and  her  eyes  grew  grave.  "  It  is 
the  trouble  with  all  of  us.  We  know  so  little 
of  one  another's  world!" 

The  past  week  had  been  one  of  strange  ex- 
hilarations. Mr.  Whyte's  departure  to  see 
about  the  log  building  which  was  to  be  a  room 
of  books  wherein  the  people  of  the  Red  Gum 
district  could  come  and  read,  and  from  which 
they  could  take  books  away  into  their  homes, 
had  caused  a  degree  of  excitement  out  of  pro- 
portion to  its  importance,  perhaps.  But  the 
168 


A   TWILIGHT   TALK 

establishment  of  a  library — at  the  word  she 
smiled — had  long  been  a  dream,  not  only  of 
herself  and  the  Doctor,  but  of  the  worked-to- 
death  little  minister  and  his  more  worked-to- 
death  and  cheerful  little  wife,  and,  now  it  was 
coming  true,  they  were  so  very  happy.  It  was 
nice  to  be  happy. 

Out  in  the  big  world,  the  world  she  had  lived 
in  when  with  her  sister,  she  wondered  if  they 
knew  what  real  things  they  could  do  with  it — 
those  people  with  their  much  money,  which 
they  spent  so  lavishly  on  people  who  spent 
lavishly  in  return.  If  they  just  knew —  She 
changed  her  position  and  looked  at  the  wall 
opposite  with  its  faded  paper  of  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  encircled  in  a  wreath  of  roses, 
and  slowly  her  eyes  closed. 

She  wondered  what  the  Doctor  thought  of 
Mr.  Colburn's  case.  It  was  impossible  to 
think  him  a  sick  man.  About  him  was  no 
suggestion  of  ill  health,  and  with  him  a  sense  of 
security,  of  ability  to  accomplish  his  purpose 
that  strength  ever  radiates,  and  she  did  not 
believe  it  likely  he  would  have  to  stay  long. 
She  hoped  not.  Of  course  she  hoped  not, 
only — 

She  had  shown  him  the  one  store  at  the 
station  where  was  post-office  and  telegraph- 
169 


THE   HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

office  as  well;  shown  him  the  school-house  in 
which  Miss  Finney  was  doing  a  hero's  work 
without  a  hero's  recognition  and  reward;  the 
little  church  and  the  small  cabins  of  their 
mountain  friends;  told  him  who  each  of  the 
patients  was,  with  a  little  something  of  their 
stories,  and  gone  with  him  to  barn  and  stable, 
and  sheepfold  and  workshop,  and  negro  quar- 
ters and  apple  orchards — to,  indeed,  all  that 
made  their  little  world  at  Piping  Forest ;  and  now 
there  was  nothing  more  that  she  could  do. 

The  firelight  danced  upon  the  rug  about  her 
feet,  and  drowsiness  crept  over  her.  He  would 
have  to  go  away  if  he  did  not  like  their  little 
world.  It  was  a  quiet,  busy,  happy  world, 
not  a  big  one  such  as  he  was  used  to,  where 
big  things  could  be  done.  She  hoped  he  would 
not  go  away.  It  would  be  very  lonely  if — 
He  could  go  anywhere  he  chose  .  .  .  She — 
was — going — to — sleep. 

Down  in  the  library  Colburn  waited,  and, 
waiting,  walked  from  deep-silled,  damask-cur- 
tained windows  to  book-filled  sides  of  the 
room;  and  from  the  wide,  old-fashioned  desk, 
with  books  behind  its  diamond  panes,  to  the 
carved  center-table  of  richly  colored  mahogany, 
and  at  the  latter  he  stopped  and  glanced  at 
170 


A   TWILIGHT   TALK 

the  many  magazines  and  new  books  piled 
upon  it. 

"Out  of  the  world  he  may  be,  but  of  its 
thought  and  work  he  knows  far  more  than  I, 
far  more  than  any  man  I  know."  The  opening 
of  the  door  behind  made  him  turn.  Going  to 
the  fireplace,  he  pulled  forward  a  deep,  low 
chair. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  half  an  hour,"  he 
said .  "  Were  you  very  tired  ? ' ' 

"Not  tired  at  all,  but  I've  been  asleep." 

With  slippered  foot  on  the  low  fender  she 
drew  her  skirt  of  pale-yellow  stuff  slightly  aside, 
and  in  the  firelight  the  whiteness  of  her  throat 
showed  clearly,  for  the  dress  was  open  at  the 
neck,  and  on  her  black  hair,  parted  and  brushed 
back,  the  flicker  of  the  flames  seemed  soft 
kisses  that  came  and  went  from  unseen  lips. 
She  looked  around. 

"I  wonder  why  Dominicker  doesn't  light  the 
lamps!" 

"He  came  in  to  light  them.  I  sent  him  out. 
The  firelight  is  much  nicer — that  is,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Settling  herself  in  the  chair,  she  leaned  back 

in  it  and  put  her  feet  on   a   crewel-worked 

cushion  of  ancient  pattern.     "No,  I  don't  mind. 

When  I  was  a  child  the  twilight  hour  was  the 

171 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

happy  hour.  It  was  father's  hour  for  telling 
us  stories.  Nowadays  fathers  have  so  little 
to  do  with  their  children.  I  don't  believe  the 
new  fathers  know  any  stories,  and  they're  too 
tired  to  tell  them  if  they  knew.  Everybody  is 
so  busy.  We  didn't  use  to  be." 

Colburn  drew  his  chair  a  bit  farther  from  the 
fire,  and  his  gray  eyes  smiled  into  hers. 

"Were  they  so  much  better — those  days  that 
are  no  more?" 

"Sometimes  I  think  they  were.  We  had 
more  time  for  certain  things  we  have  no  time 
for  now;  but  then  again  I'm  sure  this  is  the 
wonderful  age  of  human  history." 

She  laughed  and,  drawing  the  tall  screen 
closer,  lowered  its  framed  square  of  embroidered 
peacock,  and  adjusted  it  to  the  angle  that 
would  keep  the  flame  from  her  face.  "I'm 
glad  I've  had  a  chance  at  life  in  it.  It  is  the 
woman's  age — the  age  in  which  she  has  waked 
up.  Wasn't  it  queer  she  should  have  slept 
contentedly  so  long?" 

"Contentedly?  I  imagine  she  has  not  been 
content  for  some  time,  but  to  open  her  eyes  to 
what  she  was  not  supposed  to  see  required 
courage  for  which  she  had  no  training.  No 
bondage  is  so  hard  to  break  as  heritage  and 
custom." 

172 


A   TWILIGHT   TALK 

"And  we  must  open  our  eyes!  It  is  so  hard 
to  make  those  who  do  not  want  to  see,  who  will 
not  see,  understand.  Half  the  trouble  in  the 
world  is  because  we  do  not  try  to  understand." 

"The  woman  who  doesn't  want  to,  won't." 
Colburn's  eyes  were  still  watching  the  flushed 
and  eager  face.  "If  she  doesn't  wish  to  know 
a  thing,  see  a  thing,  believe  a  thing,  for  her  it 
does  not  exist,  and  for  you  it  must  not.  When 
she  does  she  will  go  to  her  death  if  necessary  to 
give  proof  of  her  belief.  Yours  is  indeed  the 
half  of  humanity  which  keeps  the  other  half 
guessing." 

She  laughed.  "I  thought  you  were  going  to 
say  swearing.  We  are  the  real  intolerants  of 
life.  Individualism  has  been  our  school,  and 
we've  so  long  seen  darkly  through  the  glass  of 
things  that  now  the  chance  has  come  to  see 
clearly  we  are  afraid  to  look.  And,  most  of  all, 
women  are  afraid  of  one  another.  No  really 
sensible  woman  denies  that  women  are  queer!" 

Laughing,  she  slipped  out  of  her  chair  and, 
sitting  on  the  crewel- worked  footstool,  held  out 
her  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"It's  dreadfully  cold  in  here!  I  like  all  the 
room  to  be  warm.  I  want  the  open  fire,  want 
it  for  cheer  and  comfort  and  company,  and 
because  I'm  used  to  it  and  love  it,  but  I  know 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

it  is  not  enough.  Like  a  great  many  things  of 
yesterday,  it  is  not  enough  to-day." 

The  door  opened,  and  Dominicker's  head  was 
thrust  inside. 

"Mis'  Bagley  say  is  you  all  comin'  to  supper? 
The  bell  done  rung  three  times,  and  she  say  the 
chicken  won't  be  fitten  to  eat  if  you  all  don't 
come  'long.  There's  waffles  to-night ;  you'd  bet- 
ter hurry!" 


XVI 

SUPPER-TIME 

AT  the  head  of  the  wide  mahogany  table, 
polished  to  a  degree  of  brightness  and 
beauty  that  compensated  somewhat  for  its  loose 
legs  and  the  big  dent  near  its  foot,  Mrs.  Bagley 
beamed  upon  her  family  of  oddly  assorted  mem- 
bers, and  behind  the  coffee -urn  and  teapot 
radiated  a  stream  of  cheer  that  reached  to  every 
seat.  Mrs.  Bagley  was  good  to  look  upon,  for 
she  was  happy;  and  for  happiness  give  me  sun- 
shine, she  would  say,  and  a  thankful  appetite 
that  says  grace  before  it  eats. 

"Do  have  a  little  more  tea,  Mr.  Wiley!  Just 
a  half -cup?  Don't  you  believe  it" — her  hand 
was  waved  dissentingly — "don't  you  believe  all 
this  nonsense  about  dieting!  Half  the  people 
in  this  world  are  starving  and  don't  know  it. 
How  can  an  engine  run  without  fuel?  But  of 
course  it  must  have  the  right  kind  of  fuel.  Why 
don't  Dominicker  bring  in  more  waffles?  Mrs. 
Elder  is  waiting  for  waffles,  Bradford." 
i75 


THE   HOUSE   OF   HAPPINESS 

She  nodded  to  the  gray -haired  darky  who, 
in  a  coat  of  ancient  cut,  was  holding  a  plate  of 
hot  rolls  behind  Dr.  Grannere's  back,  waiting 
for  that  gentleman  to  finish  carving  a  few 
more  slices  of  ham.  "Put  down  the  rolls  and 
go  see  about  the  waffles,  Bradford!  I'm  afraid 
I'll  have  to  get  you  to  speak  to  Dominicker, 
Eduard.  He  says  he  was  born  on  the  fourth 
quarter  of  the  moon,  and  certainly  at  times  he 
isn't  all  right  in  his  head.  He's  been  so  queer 
of  late  I  thought  he  was  courting,  but  Cicely 
says  he's  seeking.  He  may  take  two  weeks  to 
come  through,  and  Bradford  can't  do  more 
than  he's  doing.  Sometimes  they  don't  come 
through  for  a  month!" 

"Oh,  he's  nearly  through!" 

On  the  end  of  the  carving-fork  Dr.  Grannere 
held  a  very  thin  slice  of  ham,  and  turned  to  the 
man  at  his  side: 

"This  is  our  own  curing,  Mr.  Colburn.  Let 
me  give  you  a  bit  of  it.  Those  waffles  are  on 
the  way,  and  you'll  need  something  to  go 
with  them.  Mr.  Colburn  will  have  coffee, 
Jane." 

"I've    had    two   pieces    of   ham,"    Colburn 
hesitated.     "I  didn't  know  it  was  possible  to 
eat  what  I  have  eaten  to-night,  and  I  must  have 
some  of  those  peach  preserves." 
176 


SUPPER-TIME 

"That  you  must!"  Mrs.  Bagley  beamed 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  foot  of  the  table. 
"I  made  them,  and  there's  nothing  pleases  me 
so  much  as  to  have  people  eat  the  things  I 
make.  And  peach  preserves  are  so  healthy! 
Miss  Neilson,  won't  you  pass  Mr.  Colburn's 
cup  ?  Bradford  may  be  spanking  Dominicker — 
he's  his  youngest,  you  know,  and  Bradford  can't 
realize  he's  grown  up,  which  isn't  a  wonder. 
And  then,  too,  Bradford  isn't  a  church-member, 
and  hasn't  any  opinion  of  these  revivals  which 
are  going  on.  They  always  come  in  February, 
just  as  the  big  meetings  come  in  August,  and 
I  suppose,  poor  creatures,  they  must  have  some 
recreation  and  enjoyment.  But  I  do  wish 
they'd  bring  those  waffles !  Taska,  dear,  would 
you  mind  giving  Dr.  Walters  some  batter- 
bread?  He's  very  fond  of  batter-bread." 
.  For  half  an  hour  longer  the  talk  flowed 
cheerily;  and,  glancing  around  the  table,  Col- 
burn  wondered  if  it  were  not  some  serio-comic 
mistake  that  this  was  a  place  to  which  sick 
people  came.  With  the  exception  of  Mrs. 
Bagley  and  Dr.  Grannere,  each  seat  at  the  table 
was  filled  by  a  seeker  of  health,  for  even  the 
young  assistant,  Dr.  Walters,  and  the  nurse, 
Miss  Neilson,  were  subjects  of  science,  as 
Harnish  called  them,  and  with  all  present  was 
177 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

still  the  insecurity  that  attends  the  uncertainty 
of  trouble  not  yet  entirely  arrested. 

No  consciousness  of  insecurity  was  evident, 
however;  and  Colburn,  who  was  a  close  observer, 
had  wondered  at  the  absence  of  unrest  and 
nervous  strain  which  had  been  characteristic 
of  many  of  the  patients  at  Baywood.  There, 
in  addition  to  the  cure  and  treatment,  nothing 
was  left  undone  that  might  divert  and  enter- 
tain. At  times  he  had  resented  the  amusements 
provided,  protested  inwardly  at  their  being 
treated  as  children  before  whom  bells  must  be 
jangled  that  they  might  forget  the  cause  of  their 
fret  and  pain.  In  miniature  it  was  the  world's 
method  of  pushing  behind  the  web  of  make- 
believe  the  actualities  that  must  be  met,  and 
beneath  it  had  been  hollowness  and  discontent, 
for  each  had  known  the  still  watches  of  the  night 
were  waiting  for  their  time. 

He  wondered  if  with  each  one  around  the 
table  there  had  been  the  same  quiet  hours  with 
the  Doctor  as  had  been  his  since  he  had  come 
a  week  ago  to  Piping  Forest.  Perhaps,  if  so, 
that  accounted  for  the  atmosphere  in  which  they 
found  themselves.  After  several  physical  ex- 
aminations which  had  been  the  most  exhaustive 
and  minute  to  which  the  human  body  could 
seemingly  be  subjected  he  had  received  a  report 
178 


SUPPER-TIME 

that  for  the  moment  had  gone  to  his  head  and 
made  the  blood  beat  in  thick  surges  through  his 
brain;  and  still  he  was  told  he  was  not,  and  for 
some  while  yet  would  not  be,  entirely  well  and 
strong. 

"Nature  is  slow  and  patient,  but  she  does  her 
part  with  half  a  chance,  my  son."  And  the 
kindly,  keen,  intelligent  eyes  of  the  old  Doctor 
had  held  his  own.  "She  allows  nothing  for 
ignorance,  and  punishes  indifference  and  dis- 
regard. We  say  at  times  she  is  kind,  and  at 
others  she  is  cruel,  but  always  she  is  working. 
For  some  months  there  must  be  built  up  what 
has  been  broken  down.  The  little  life-giving 
fighters  must  be  made  strong  enough,  and  many 
enough,  to  eat  up  the  death-dealing  ones,  and  to 
do  that  there  must  be  help  on  your  part  as  well 
as  mine.  The  man  who  does  his  part  has  noth- 
ing to  fear.  In  life  there  is  no  place  for  fear." 

Was  that  the  secret  of  the  serenity  that  gave 
so  singular  a  sense  of  security  to  his  presence? 
He  was  a  good  fighter.  He  made  use  of  good 
weapons.  Little  that  science  could  provide,  lit- 
tle the  inventive  genius  of  man  had  devised  for 
the  diagnosing  and  cure  of  bodily  ills  had  he 
not  investigated,  and,  what  was  needful,  se- 
cured, and  he  doubted  if  in  any  part  of  the 
world  more  intelligent  care  was  given  to  each 
179 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

individual  case  than  was  given  to  the  patients 
of  Piping  Forest,  though  penniless  and  obscure 
were  all  save  a  few. 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  no  chance  for 
talk  on  matters  other  than  that  for  which  he 
had  come  primarily,  and  not  until  he  had  asked 
for  a  private  conversation  had  he  been  able  to 
get  the  hour  which  to-night  was  to  be  his.  As 
they  rose  from  the  table  Dr.  Grannere  turned 
to  him. 

"Ten  minutes  and  I  will  be  with  you,  Mr. 
Colburn.  There  is  a  girl  in  the  Clematis 
Cottage  I  must  see  first.  She  was  brought  in 
to-day.  You  are  tired,  Taska."  He  lifted  her 
hand  to  his  cheek  and  held  it  there  a  moment. 
"Go  to  bed,  child.  Jane,  Dr.  Morley  will  be 
here  to  breakfast.  He  is  very  fond  of  crackling 
bread  and — " 

"Pork  sausage  and  buckwheat  cakes  and  roe 
herring  and  beaten  biscuits.  I  know!"  Mrs. 
Bagley  brushed  the  crumbs  from  the  lap  of 
her  well-worn  black  silk  skirt  and  got  up  also. 

"Dr.  Morley  is  the  kind  of  man  I  like.  He 
comes  from  Maine  or  New  Hampshire  or  some 
of  those  places  where  they  have  pie  and  dough- 
nuts for  breakfast  and  indigestion  for  the  rest 
of  the  day,  but  when  he  comes  here  he  eats  any- 
thing that's  put  before  him,  and  always  takes 
1 80 


SUPPER-TIME 

a  second  helping."  And  with  a  nod  that  was 
beamingly  inclusive  she  went  through  the  door- 
way into  the  long  hall  that  opened  on  the 
yard  where  was  the  kitchen,  but  little  less  than 
half  a  square  away. 

In  the  long,  low  wing  adjoining  the  house  were 
the  Doctor's  private  rooms,  and  as  Colburn 
entered  the  study  he  had  the  sensation  of  en- 
tering a  place  in  which  is  found  a  new  sense 
of  values,  a  new  understanding  of  the  essentials 
of  life,  and  he  no  longer  greatly  dreaded  that 
which  he  had  expected  very  much  to  dread. 

He  was  not  given  to  expression  of  personal 
feeling.  His  was  not  the  nature  to  lay  bare  its 
most  sensitive  emotions,  and  nothing  save  a 
sense  of  honor  could  have  drawn  from  his  lips 
what  as  yet  was  the  secret  of  his  heart.  It 
would  not  be  easy  for  him  to  speak.  Words 
would  not  come  readily,  but  they  must  come. 
In  an  issue  such  as  this  form  must  yield  to 
frankness,  and  its  sacredness  would  save  from 
the  smallness  of  shrinking. 

Concerning  his  own  condition,  he  no  longer 
felt  either  great  depression  or  fluctuating  fear. 
He  believed  he  was  going  to  get  well.  Hun- 
dreds of  people  had  got  well,  had  married, 
and  in  their  marriage  committed  no  sin  and 
13  181 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

transmitted  no  suffering,  and  for  himself  he  was 
unafraid.  But  for  her.  Would  he  have  to  be 
afraid  for  her? 

For  the  first  time  the  money  he  had  made 
seemed  a  precious  possession,  and,  getting  up, 
he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  length  of 
the  long,  low  room  with  its  frayed  carpet  and 
shabby  chairs.  At  the  death  of  his  mother  it 
had  mocked  him  with  its  helplessness  to  heal 
the  deeper  hurts  of  life,  but  now  it  would  be  the 
means  by  which  might  be  secured  those  aids 
so  necessary  in  cases  such  as  Taska's;  and  if 
she  would  marry  him  nothing  in  human  power 
would  be  left  undone  that  held  out  hope  for 
health  and  strength  and  normal  life  again. 

If  only  he  could  go  back  to  work  and  make 
more  money!  He  would  want  much,  need 
much.  A  sudden  thrill  of  desire  to  get  again 
in  his  hands  the  management  of  certain  matters 
possessed  him  restlessly,  and,  taking  a  letter  from 
his  pocket,  he  looked  at  its  date. 

Shortly  after  he  had  written  Ralstone  to 
call  off  further  negotiations  for  the  Colesworth 
house  the  latter  had  left  for  a  hurried  trip  to 
Europe.  The  letter  in  his  hand  told  of  his 
return,  and  also  that  he  would  write  at  length 
a  little  later  concerning  one  or  two  matters  that 
needed  some  explanation.  During  his  absence 
182 


SUPPER-TIME 

his  head  clerk,  to  whom  he  had  given  certain 
powers  to  be  exercised  in  case  of  need,  had  ex- 
ceeded those  powers,  and  in  consequence  there 
were  some  small  complications  that  needed 
straightening. 

Glancing  over  the  letter,  he  frowned  per- 
plexedly. He  had  fully  intended  to  withdraw 
from  Ralstone  the  power  of  attorney  left  with 
him,  but,  not  wishing  to  do  so  when  writing  of 
the  house  matter,  he  put  it  off  for  a  few  days, 
and  in  the  mean  time  received  the  note  telling 
of  the  business  trip  abroad.  He  must  write 
him  to-morrow. 

The  stamping  of  a  foot  outside  the  door  made 
him  pause  in  his  walk,  and  a  moment  later 
Dr.  Grannere  came  in. 

"Snowing  again,"  he  said.  "We  must  see 
about  the  birds  to-morrow.  This  has  been  a 
bad  winter,  but  a  bad  winter  means  a  good 
spring.  Punch  the  fire,  Mr.  Colburn,  while  I 
get  a  pipe  made  from  a  bit  of  a  Piping  Forest 
tree.  I  don't  smoke,  myself,  but  I  enjoy  seeing 
others  smoke,  and  for  many  years  old  Joshua 
Crane  has  whittled  pipes  for  the  friends  who 
come  and  go.  Morley  sends  the  tobacco.  What 
did  Dominicker  do  with  that  box  of  pipes !  Ah, 
here  it  is,  and  here's  the  tobacco !  Draw  up  your 
chair,  my  son,  This  is  a  good  night  for  a  talk." 
183 


XVII 

CONFESSIONS 

COLBURN  did  not  draw  up  his  chair.  Nor 
did  he  fill  the  quaintly  carved  pipe  the 
Doctor  handed  him.  Instead  he  looked  at  it 
for  half  a  moment,  then  laid  it  on  the  mantel- 
shelf and  leaned  against  the  latter,  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

''I  have  asked  you  to  let  me  talk  to  you 
to-night,"  he  began,  his  voice  quiet,  but  a  bit 
unsteady,  "because  I  want  to  tell  you  I  love 
Taska  Laird.  Until  you  assured  me  the 
chances  were  all  in  my  favor  for  getting  well  I 
could  not  tell  you — or  her — and  yet  I  wanted 
you  to  know  before  I  came.  Had  your  verdict 
been  different  I  should  have  gone  away,  and  not 
even  to  her  would  I  have  told  what  I  am  telling 
you  now.  But  I  am  going  to  get  well,  and  I  am 
going  to  marry  her  if  she  will  marry  me,  even 
if  she—" 

He  stopped  and,  taking  out  his  handkerchief, 
wiped  his  forehead.  His  face  was  white,  but 
184 


CONFESSIONS 

in  his  eyes  and  the  sudden  setting  of  his  lips 
was  something  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  for  a 
moment  the  Doctor  said  nothing. 

If  at  the  first  words  he  had  given  a  start  of 
surprise  there  was  no  second  indication.  Too 
long  had  he  been  schooled  to  unexpected  revela- 
tions of  life  to  be  taken  greatly  unawares,  and 
after  the  first  moment  he  leaned  back  in  his  low 
chair,  and,  with  elbow  on  the  table,  shaded  his 
eyes  from  the  light  of  its  lamp,  and  watched  the 
face,  fine  and  earnest,  that  was  looking  into  his, 
and  then  he  spoke. 

"Even  if  she—" 

"Is  never  to  be  well." 

The  words  came  indistinctly,  then  Colburn 
straightened.  "Unless  you  tell  me  marriage 
will  absolutely  endanger  her  life  I  am  going  to 
try  to  make  her  marry  me.  It  is  this  that  I  am 
asking  you  to  do.  To  tell  me  what  her  chances 
are  for  health  that — " 

"Justifies  marriage?" 

"No." 

Hands  in  his  pockets,  Colburn  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room.  "I  once  was  as  severe 
and  exacting  as  the  coldest  of  scientists  regard- 
ing the  justification  of  marriage,  but  that  was 
before  I  understood  its  supreme  requirement.  I 
have  not  told  her  of  my  love.  I  could  not 
185 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

until  I  knew  I  would  not  be  a  burden,  a  care, 
an  anxiety,  should  she  in  time  love  me  in 
return.  But  I  am  here  to-night  to  ask  your 
consent  to  win  her.  If  you  do  not  give  it  I 
must  go  away.  With  her  alone  is  to  rest  the 
decision  concerning  marriage." 

"And  if  for  her  marriage  would  be  sin?" 

Colburn  stopped.  "God,  man!  Do  you 
think  I  would  let  it  be  a  sin?" 

With  a  swift  movement  of  his  hand  as  if  to 
wave  back  what  was  not  in  thought  to  be 
imagined  Colburn  continued  his  walk  a  moment 
longer;  then  he  came  to  the  table  and,  drawing 
up  a  chair,  sat  down  in  it  opposite  the  Doctor. 

'  'Tell  me, ' '  he  said.    ' '  Is  she  going  to  get  well  ?" 

Carefully  the  wick  of  the  lamp  was  lowered, 
and,  moving  his  chair  closer  to  the  fire,  Dr. 
Grannere  leaned  forward  and  broke  into  brill- 
iant blaze  a  large  lump  of  coal. 

"She  is,"  he  said,  quietly,  "but  you  will  get 
well  first.  Her  strength  is  by  no  means  equal 
to  her  will.  For  years  she  may  need — " 

"What  I  can  give  her.  I've  had  to  make  the 
same  fight  she  has.  I  can  understand,  and  care 
and  protect  her  as  could  no  one  who  has  not  had 
my  experience."  Colburn's  voice  was  low  and 
eager.  "Have  I  your  consent  to  marry  her  if 
she  will  marry  me?" 

186 


CONFESSIONS 

The  Doctor  looked  up.  Over  his  beautiful 
face,  into  which  life's  denials  had  never  brought 
embitterment,  varying  emotions  for  a  moment 
swept  rapidly;  then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  certainly  have  not,  my  son."  He 
smiled  whimsically,  then  gravely.  "Taska  must 
not  marry  yet.  Moreover,  though  I  think  I 
know  a  man  when  I  have  lived  in  the  house 
with  him  some  while,  I  don't  know  him  well 
enough  to  let  him  marry  my  child.  I  know 
very  little  of  you,  Mr.  Colburn.  Why  should 
I  give  my  consent  to  your  marrying  Taska  even 
were  she  strong  and  well?" 

Into  Colburn's  face  sprang  flame,  then  some- 
thing in  the  Doctor's  checked  the  hot  words  on 
his  lips,  and  a  sudden  sense  of  comedy  came 
over  him.  That  he,  Rives  Colburn,  whose 
name  among  his  people  was  his  passport,  and 
who  had  been  for  some  time  considered  a  most 
eligible  possibility  among  the  matrimonially 
desirous  in  his  community,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  out  of  it,  to  be  told  to  his  face  that 
he  was  unknown  was  an  experience  a  bit 
humorous  as  well  as  uncomfortable.  Then 
the  color  in  his  face  cooled,  and  the  frown 
faded. 

"If  you  were  doubtful  of  me  you  should  not 
have  taken  me  in  your  home,"  he  said,  and  his 
187 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

voice  made  effort  to  be  steady.  ' '  If  credentials 
are  necessary — " 

"No.  Credentials  are  not  necessary.  I  took 
you  in  my  home  as  a  patient,  not  as  a  suitor  for 
Taska's  hand."  The  Doctor's  was  laid  on 
Colburn's.  "I  like  you,  my  son,  but  that  does 
not  mean  I  am  as  yet  willing  to  consent  to 
Taska's  marrying  you.  How  do  I  know  you 
would  be  the  husband  she  should  have  ?  So  far 
your  own  interests  and  affairs  have  come  first 
in  your  life.  Taska's  ideals  of  marriage  are 
very  high,  and  she  could  never  be  happy  as  an 
adjunct  of  life.  They  tell  me  I  am  out  of  date 
and  old-fashioned,  and  that  people  do  not  love 
in  these  practical  days  as  they  loved  in  the  days 
of  romance — the  days  that  are  said  to  be  dead. 
I  do  not  believe  it.  Love  may  be  blighted,  may 
wither  and  waste,  but  it  does  not  die.  When 
love  is  dead,  so,  too,  is  life.  It  is  the  same  to- 
day as  it  was  yesterday,  if  its  roots  be  in  the  soil 
that  nourishes.  How  do  I  know  the  nature  of 
your  love?  I  do  not  doubt  its  very  real  exist- 
ence, but  its  wearing  quality.  Of  that  how  can 
I  tell?  Were  you  not  engaged  some  weeks  ago 
to  some  one  else?" 

"I  was." 

Colburn's  face  flushed,  but  his  eyes  looked 
steadily  into  those  looking  into  his.  "Some 
188 


CONFESSIONS 

weeks  ago  the  lady  to  whom  I  was  engaged 
broke  the  engagement.  When  I  asked  her  to 
marry  me  I  wanted  a  home.  She  answered 
every  visible  requirement  of  the  home  she  also 
wanted.  She  wanted  money,  and  all  that  money 
means,  and,  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the 
modern  sense,  I  could  supply  most  of  her  de- 
sires, and  we  became  engaged.  As  clearly  as 
you  I  see  the  sin  of  it  now,  but  I  did  not  see  it 
then.  There  are  many  who  do  not  see  it  still. 
Perhaps  I  should  not  have  done  so  had  not — 
love  shown  me." 

With  a  sudden  movement  Colburn  put  his 
arms  on  the  table  and  leaned  toward  the 
Doctor. 

"I  have  read  all  sorts  of  philosophies  and 
theories  concerning  the  relation  of  men  and 
women  to  one  another,  all  sorts  of  dreamings  and 
demands  of  mystics  and  free-thinkers,  all  sorts 
of  old  and  new  ideas  regarding  morals  and 
marriage,  and  I  thought  I  had  my  own.  But 
when  Taska  came  into  my  life  I  was  conscious  of 
what  before  was  unawakened,  conscious — 

"And  Taska?"  The  Doctor,  too,  leaned  for- 
ward. "Does  Taska  love  you?" 

Colburn 's  head  went  up  and  his  eyes  faced 
those  looking  into  his,  but  his  hands  shook 
slightly. 

189 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

' '  No, ' '  he  said.  "  I  do  not  think  she  loves  me 
yet.  I  have  said  no  word,  but  restraint  is  no 
longer  possible.  Great  God!  Has  there  never 
been  love  in  your  heart  for  a  woman  that  you 
can  understand?" 

The  Doctor's  hand  went  out  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow,  and  his  face  grew  gray  and  withered. 
Seeing  it,  Colburn  stopped,  his  own  face  whiten- 
ing. "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  seem 
to  be  saying  all  that's  wrong  to-night." 

The  tick  of  the  clock  and  the  crackle  of  the 
coals  alone  answered  him,  but  half  a  moment 
later  the  Doctor  made  effort  to  smile,  and,  get- 
ting up,  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  night,  my  son.  You  have  given  me 
much  to  think  of,  but  I  cannot  think  clearly 
just  now.  You  must  come  again.  You  will 
not  tell  Taska  until  we  talk  this  over  some  other 
time?  I  can  trust  you?  You  will  not  tell 
her  of  your  love?  She  is  in  my  care,  and  her 
happiness  as  well  as  health  is  in  my  keeping.  I 
must  think — "  He  steadied  himself  with  his 
hand  on  the  table.  "It  has  been  long  since 
I  have  talked  of  love  and  marriage.  Some 
things  we  think  are  dead  are  not  dead.  Come 
to-morrow  night.  No,  not  to-morrow.  I  am 
going  away  in  the  morning  for  a  couple  of  days 
with  Dr.  Morley.  This  is  Tuesday.  Come 
190 


CONFESSIONS 

Friday  night  and  talk  with  me  again.  And 
don't  think — don't  think  I  do  not  understand!" 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  his  eyes  search- 
ing with  wistful  appeal  the  face  before  him,  then 
with  swift  decision  he  laid  his  hand  on  Colburn's 
arm. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "Save  Jane's,  no 
eyes  at  Piping  Forest,  not  even  Taska's,  have 
seen  what  I  shall  show  you.  You  will  not  speak 
of  this,  but  when  you  see  you  then  will  know 
how  well — I  understand!" 

Leading  the  way,  he  opened  the  door  into  the 
room  adjoining ;  and,  following,  Colburn  saw  him 
light  two  tall  candles  on  either  end  of  the  mantel- 
piece, and  saw  also  he  was  in  a  bedroom.  It 
was  low-pitched  and  oblong,  and  its  furnishings 
as  bare  as  a  sybarite's,  but  over  the  mantel  was 
a  large  picture,  heavily  framed  and  covered  with 
a  curtain  of  wine-colored  cloth.  As  Colburn 
drew  closer  the  Doctor  lighted  a  third  candle 
and  held  it  high  in  his  left  hand,  while  with  his 
right  he  pulled  slowly  a  cord  of  faded  gold. 

"Nearly  forty  years  ago  I  learned  how — to 
understand,"  he  said,  and  in  the  shadowy  flick- 
ering light  a  face  of  exquisite  loveliness  looked 
down  upon  them.  On  the  parted  lips  a  smile 
alluring  and  yet  of  proud  reserve  hung  as  if 
uncertain  whether  to  grow  warm  and  sweet  or 
191 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

cold  and  bitter,  and  in  the  brilliant  black  eyes 
were  depths  so  baffling  that  Colburn  could 
understand  the  madness  that  might  seize  a  man 
who  was  lured  by  them  to-day  and  found  in 
them  but  disdain  to-morrow.  With  a  swift 
turn  of  his  head  he  looked  at  the  man  beside 
him. 

Forty  years  ago!  The  flame  of  love  still 
flung  its  fire,  and  in  the  gentle  face  was  youth's 
upleaping,  then  it  faded  and  left  it  white  and 
worn. 

Twisting  the  cord  around  a  hook  in  the  wall, 
the  curtain  was  kept  drawn  as  usual  for  the 
night,  and  on  Colburn's  arm  the  old  Doctor 
again  laid  his  hand. 

"  It  is  because  I  understand  so  well,  my  son, 
that  I  would  have  no  man,  no  woman,  do  the 
wrong  I  did.  I  let  ambition  in  my  life  come 
first.  A  few  days  before  Diane  and  I  were  to  be 
married  I—  He  stopped.  "I  cannot  talk  of 
it  to-night.  Some  other  time  perhaps."  He 
put  his  hand  on  the  door-frame  of  his  bedroom. 
' '  On  Friday  come  again ;  and  no  word  to  Taska. 
Not  even  of  the  picture.  You  will  remember?" 

Colburn  turned  quickly,  but  the  frown  caused 
by  the  question,  which  was  unnecessary,  faded, 
and  his  hand  was  outheld. 

"I  will  remember,"  he  said;  and,  turning,  he 
192 


CONFESSIONS 

went  out  of  the  door  and  across  the  snow- 
covered  lawn  to  his  room  in  the  big  house,  and 
late  into  the  night  before  his  fire  he  wondered 
concerning  that  which  he  had  seen,  concern- 
ing that  which  he  was  to  hear,  and  most  of  all 
of  the  days  that  were  ahead. 


XVIII 

WORRIES   AND  WORRYING 

BUTTONING  his  coat  as  he  came  down  the 
steps,  Colburn,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  left,  walked  down  the  box-bordered  path  and 
through  the  gate  to  the  private  road  belonging 
to  Piping  Forest.  Reaching  the  public  road  at 
whose  fork  one  turned  to  the  south  if  the  station 
and  its  one  store  were  to  be  reached,  and  to  the 
north  if  the  little  settlement  was  the  destination 
in  view,  he  hesitated  half  a  minute  and  then 
entered  a  by-path  which  led  to  a  cabin  some 
two  miles  away. 

The  station  was  seven  miles  distant,  and, 
though  a  sort  of  savage  energy  could  take  him 
there,  it  could  not  bring  him  back,  and,  more- 
over, the  station  and  its  lounging  occupants  did 
not  appeal.  Nor  did  the  settlement.  Noth- 
ing appealed.  A  good  long  tramp  was  what  he 
needed,  and  to  get  it  he  had  started  early  and 
alone. 

During  the  Doctor's  absence  he  had  seen 
194 


WORRIES    AND    WORRYING 

Taska  but  once.  Save  at  his  meals  he  had  seen 
little  of  any  one.  The  writing  of  many  letters 
had  claimed  his  time,  and,  besides,  he  was  in  no 
mood  to  talk.  Something  of  the  old  rebellion, 
the  old  restlessness,  was  upon  him,  and  a  con- 
suming desire  to  go  back  to  his  work,  to  take 
again  in  his  hands  the  management  of  matters 
that  needed  him,  possessed  him  to  a  degree  that 
tested  his  strongest  powers  of  restraint,  and 
only  by  great  effort  was  he  decently  polite  to 
his  fellow-residents  on  the  mountain-top. 

For  two  days  a  cold  had  kept  Taska  in  her 
room,  but  beyond  a  formal  inquiry  of  Mrs. 
Bagley  or  Miss  Neilson  he  could  learn  nothing 
of  her  real  condition,  and  unreasoning  fear  had 
filled  him  lest  their  long  walks  had  been  unwise, 
and  he  the  cause  of  her  overtaxing  her  strength. 
A  thousand  foolish,  fearsome  questions  had 
tormented  him;  and  the  house  no  longer  being 
endurable,  he  had  hurried  out  of  it,  and  not 
until  within  sight  of  the  cabin  of  Mr.  Solomon 
Hatch  did  he  realize  he  had  been  walking  as  if 
pursued.  At  the  realization  he  slowed  down. 

Why  he  had  come  in  this  direction  he  hardly 
knew.  The  road  was  rough  and  narrow,  but 
occasionally  through  the  gaunt,  bare  trees  vistas 
of  alluring  beauty  could  be  glimpsed,  and  at 
one  point  was  a  site  that  Taska  had  told  him 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

she  wished  was  hers.  Were  it  hers  she  would 
build  a  cabin  on  it  and  spend  her  summers  there, 
she  said.  He  wondered  if  it  were  for  sale. 

As  he  reached  it  he  stopped.  Across  the 
Gap  peaks  of  the  Blue  Ridge  undulated  in 
rhythmic  fashion,  and  on  their  crest  patches  of 
snow,  which  caught  the  sunlight  and  gave  back 
rainbow  gleamings,  stood  out  clearly  against  the 
wooded  mountain-sides,  while  from  the  valley,  as 
soft  as  shadows  of  the  day  that  dies,  the  mist 
was  rising,  white  and  gray. 

As  alone  as  if  he  were  earth's  only  occupant, 
he  breathed  deeply  of  the  clear,  pine-scented  air 
and  felt  the  subtle  stirrings  of  awakening  na- 
ture, watched  the  soft  haze  of  the  sky's  pale 
blue  and  amethyst  fade  in  the  golden  glow  of 
the  absorbing  sun,  then  turned  away  and  con- 
tinued his  walk. 

It  was  very  wonderful,  very  beautiful,  but  he 
preferred  a  street  full  of  people.  He  looked 
ahead  at  the  little  cabin  on  the  mountain-side 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  He  would  pay  its 
occupants  a  visit.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Solomon 
Hatch  were  a  type  unknown  before  coming  to 
Piping  Forest,  and  their  points  of  view  were  en- 
tertaining. They  took  life  at  its  face  value, 
asked  no  questions,  offered  no  explanations, 
and  made  no  pretense  of  understanding  its 
196 


WORRIES    AND   WORRYING 

problems  or  perplexities.  And  still  their  prin- 
cipal occupation  was  conversation.  There  was 
no  time  of  day  or  night  they  were  not  ready  to 
talk,  and  if  an  audience  of  one  or  more  were 
not  at  hand  the  pig  or  the  dog,  the  cow  or 
the  cat  would  answer  their  purpose.  They 
preferred  people,  but  early  in  life  they  had 
learned  to  accept  the  limitations  of  their  envi- 
ronment. 

When  he  reached  the  cabin  Mrs.  Solomon 
Hatch  opened  the  door  cautiously.  Seeing  the 
visitor,  she  stretched  it  wide. 

"I  thought  'twas  Solomon,"  she  said,  "and  I 
didn't  see  no  wood.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  let  him  in 
lessen  he's  got  the  wood.  Come  in  and  set  your- 
self down,  Mr.  Piper.  I  can't  right  this  minute 
hitch  your  name  to  your  face,  but  I  know  you 
come  from  up  there" — her  hand  was  waved 
indefinitely  into  space  —  "and  the  Doctor's 
friends  is  always  welcome.  I  never  was  good  on 
names,  but  Piper  people  can  come  in  here,  goin' 
down  or  comin'  up,  and  rest  their  legs  whenever 
they  feel  like  it,  and  if  that  good-for-nothin' 
what's  mine  ain't  around  I  enjoys  seein'  of  'em. 
But  when  he  is  I  might  as  well  be  dead  or  dust 
for  all  the  chance  I  get  to  say  anything.  Last 
time  you  come  Miss  Taska  was  with  you. 
How's  she  feelin'  to-day?" 
14  197 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

Colburn  looked  around  for  a  place  to  put  his 
hat,  then  laid  it  on  his  knee. 

' '  Not  very  well,  I  believe.  Has  a  pretty  bad 
cold.  Dr.  Grannere  is  away,  and  Dr.  Walters 
seemed  a  little  worried  yesterday.  She  is  better 
to-day." 

"Co'se  she  is.  And  if  anybody  will  tell  me 
what  good  worryin'  does  they  can  have  every 
egg  my  hens  is  agoin'  to  lay  this  spring !  More 
folks  wears  out  from  worryin'  than  dies  from 
drink,  and  drink  is  the  king-bee  killer,  Mr. 
Deyo  says,  and  he  ought  to  know,  bein'  a 
preacher.  I  ain't  one  of  them  what  takes  a 
preacher's  word  as  gospel,  for  I  ain't  ever  seen  a 
male  creature  yet  what  warn't  just  a  man,  and 
when  you  live  with  a  Solomon  Hatch  your  ideas 
of  man  ain't  much.  But  Mr.  Deyo  ain't  ever 
said  nothin'  what  didn't  prove  itself  in  the  seven 
years  he's  been  here ;  and  if  he  says  whiskey,  corn 
or  any  other  kind,  is  the  root  of  all  evil,  which 
the  Bible  says  is  money,  I'll  take  his  word  for 
it,  him  livin'  now  and  knowin'  what  he's  talkin' 
about,  and  the  gent 'man  who  wrote  that  in  the 
Bible  bein'  dead  some  time.  I'm  sorry  Miss 
Taska's  got  a  cold,  but  if  they'll  give  her  hot 
molasses  with  turpentine  in  it  every  hour,  and 
put  a  mutton-suet  plaster  on  her  chest,  and  bind 
some  red  peppers  on  the  soles  of  her  feet,  she'll 
198 


WORRIES    AND   WORRYING 

be  well  'fore  come  Sunday,  sure's  you're  livin'. 
'Tain't  meant  for  folks  like  her  to  be  sick.  The 
world  is  a-needin'  of  'em  too  bad.  Seems  like 
the  triflin'est  ones  is  the  ones  what  lasts  longest, 
though.  A  man  what's  got  a  complainin'  wife 
has  got  her  for  life.  You  can't  kill  a  complainer. 
Solomon's  brother's  got  one  like  that.  He 
thinks  all  the  world  of  her,  waits  on  her  like  she 
was  a  baby.  I  used  to  think  she  was  a  little 
fool  critter,  but  it's  me  who's  been  the  fool.  A 
man  don't  think  much  of  a  woman  he  don't  have 
to  wait  on.  You  don't  look  like  you're  mar- 
ried. Be  you?" 

Colburn,  who  had  been  looking  around  the 
room,  shook  his  head.  Built  of  logs  whose 
chinks  were  filled  in  with  mud,  the  walls  had  a 
corrugated  effect  that  was  fascinating,  and  an 
inclination  to  count  them  possessed  him 
strongly.  Splotches  of  color  made  by  feminine 
garments  and  calico  quilts,  by  strings  of  red 
peppers  and  ears  of  corn,  by  pails  and  pans,  and 
pants  of  corduroy  which  hung  suspended  at 
irregular  distances  on  their  four  sides,  relieved 
their  bareness  most  effectively,  and,  hardly 
hearing,  he  again  nodded  his  head. 

"What  did  you  say?"  His  eyes  came  back 
from  their  survey  of  the  stove,  one  leg  of  which 
was  gone  and  its  place  taken  by  a  stone  of 
199 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

slightly  greater  height  than  the  leg  it  replaced. 
"Am  I  married?"  Again  he  shook  his  head. 
"No.  I  am  not  married." 

Hands  on  her  hips  and  the  sun-bonnet,  which 
hung  ever  on  her  back  in  winter  and  summer, 
forming  a  gray  setting  for  the  shrewd,  seamed 
face,  she  looked  at  the  man  before  her  with 
sharp,  keen  eyes. 

"Right  good-lookin'  critter  not  to  been  caught 
'fore  this.  I  ain't  sayin'  a  little  more  flesh 
wouldn't  help  you,  and  you  don't  look  like 
you've  swung  an  axe  as  much  as  is  good  for 
you.  But  as  men  go,  you  ain't  bad.  If  I'm  any 
judge,  you  spend  more  time  thinkin'  how  you'd 
like  to  run  this  universe  than  is  healthy  for  you. 
You  ain't  a-goin'  to  run  it,  and  if  you're  as 
smart  as  you  look  you'll  spend  your  time  doin' 
what  you  can  do,  if  your  mouth's  any  sign. 
I  always  did  like  a  man  with  good  teeth.  Yours 
is  as  white  and  even  as  Miss  Taska's.  Now 
she's  what  I  call  sensible.  Just  to  hear  her 
laugh  kinder  clears  up  things.  She's  the  onliest 
person  I  ever  knew  what  could  outtalk  Sol- 
omon. Leastways,  she's  the  onliest  one  he'll 
listen  to." 

Going  over  to  the  stove,  Mrs.  Hatch  put  in 
the  last  piece  of  wood  in  the  box,  then  came 
back  and,  sitting  down  in  the  chair  opposite 
200 


WORRIES   AND    WORRYING 

Colburn,  took  from  her  pocket  the  sock  she  was 
knitting  for  her  husband. 

"If  you  can  tell  me  how  Solomon  Hatch  ex- 
pects his  dinner  to  get  cooked  without  wood  I'll 
be  obliged,"  she  said.  "Solomon  could  tell. 
There  ain't  nothin'  he  couldn't  explain  if  you'd 
let  him.  But  I  says  to  him  this  mornin',  says 
I:  'Solomon,  from  this  day  on  it's  you  brings 
in  the  wood  or  it's  you  what  gets  no  dinner. 
I've  come  to  my  senses.'  I  come  to  'em  right 
often,  but  I  don't  stay  in  'em  as  long  as  I 
ought. 

"I  tell  you  now,  if  I'd  been  a  worryin'  kind 
I'd  been  in  my  grave  the  first  year  I  married 
Solomon  Hatch.  Soon  as  my  girls  could  under- 
stand talk  I  tole  'em  if  an  explainin'  person  ever 
court  'em  to  run  as  fast  as  their  feet  could  fly. 
Solomon's  an  explainer.  He  ain't  ever  done  a 
day's  work,  what's  a  man's  work,  since  he  was 
born  in  this  world,  but  the  man  he  was  named  for 
couldn't  have  give  more  better  reasons  why  he 
didn't  do  it.  I  come  from  the  other  side  the 
Gap,  and  I  didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  him  'cept 
his  looks  and  his  talk,  and  nobody  on  our  side 
could  touch  him  in  them  two  things,  which  is 
always  onreliable.  I  reckon  you're  goin'  to  get 
married  some  day,  ain't  you?" 

' '  I  certainly  hope  to. ' '  Colburn  laughed  and, 
201 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

pushing  a  flat-iron  from  the  edge  of  the  bare 
table,  put  his  elbow  on  it.  "Don't  you  approve 
of  matrimony?  You've  had  long  experience." 

"Long  experience  ain't  always  a  safe  recom- 
mendation. I  been  married  thirty-nine  years — 
come  next  November  'twill  be  forty — and  I  ain't 
testifyin'  in  favor  of  matrimony  when  the  man  is 
a  Solomon  Hatch.  Never  yet  seen  any  thin' 
what  could  disturb  him.  He  ain't  got  a  wrinkle 
what's  made  by  worry." 

1 '  But  you  said  just  now  there  was  no  need  of 
worrying!" 

Mrs.  Hatch  walked  over  to  the  bucket  on  the 
table  near  the  stove,  put  in  the  dipper,  and 
drank  a  good  draught.  Turning,  she  held  the 
dipper  toward  her  guest. 

"  I  ax  your  pardon.     Will  you  have  a  drink  ?' ' 

' '  No,  thank  you. ' '  Colburn  took  out  a  cigar. 
"Would  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

"Would  I  mind  if  you  smoke?"  Hands  on 
the  top  of  an  iron  kettle  from  which  was  escap- 
ing the  steam  of  a  savory  stew,  the  woman  again 
turned,  and  in  the  sharp  eyes  was  uncertainty 
and  incredulity.  "Would  I  mind?  If  I  did, 
wouldn't  you  do  it?" 

"Of  course  not."  The  lighted  match  was 
held  suspended.  "Are  you  sure  you  don't 
object?" 

202 


WORRIES    AND   WORRYING 

Mrs.  Hatch  sat  down,  and  her  hands  twisted 
under  the  check-gingham  apron.  "I  been  mar- 
ried nigh  onto  forty  years,  and  I  ain't  been 
asked  about  objectin'  before."  Into  the  faded 
face  faint  color  crept.  "Lessen  'tis  when  he's 
eatin'  or  asleep,  I  ain't  seen  Solomon's  mouth 
without  a  pipe  in  it  since  the  day  I  come  here 
to  live.  He  sticks  to  his  pipe  like  he  turns  his 
back  on  worryin'.  When  I  says  there  ain't  no 
good  in  worryin'  I  mean  'bout  them  things  what 
'tain't  in  folks'  power  to  change.  If  we  can 
change  'em  we  ought  to  do  it,  and  if  it's  the  Lord 
who's  managin'  we  can  leave  it  with  Him,  I 
reckon.  But  some  worryin's  is  lawful.  Them 
what  don't  do  their  share  generally  has  some- 
body around  who  does  it  for  'em.  That's 
Solomon.  I  ain't  never  heard  tell  that  the 
Lord  pays  taxes,  or  cuts  the  firewood,  or  mends 
the  roof  when  it  leaks,  or  gets  shoes  for  the 
children,  and  all  them  things  has  got  to  be  done. 
Solomon  Hatch  leaves  the  things  he  don't  like 
to  do  to  the  Lord.  He  gets  me  and  the  Lord 
mixed  up." 

The  ball  of  yarn  slipping  from  her  lap,  Col- 
burn  stooped,  and,  picking  it  up,  handed  it  to 
her,  and  into  her  face  again  crept  faint  color. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  Solomon  haven't  got  his  good 
points.  Some  things  he  takes  right  sensible," 
203 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

she  went  on,  after  a  fraction  of  a  moment's 
silence.  "When  the  seventh  baby  was  born 
'twas  a  girl,  same  as  the  other  six,  and  we  was 
awful  set  on  a  boy,  but  when  a  girl  came 
Solomon  said  all  the  wishin'  and  the  worryin' 
in  the  world  wouldn't  make  her  a  boy,  and  he 
liked  girls,  anyhow.  She  died.  Five  out  the 
nine  died.  The  livin'  ones  is  married,  all  'cept 
Jim.  He  went  away."  Her  voice  trailed  off 
into  huskiness.  "I  don't  reckon  you  ever  come 
across  Jim,  did  you?" 

Colburn  again  shook  his  head  and,  turning 
his  eyes  away,  watched  the  smoke  from  his 
cigar  float  up  into  the  rafters  which  supported 
the  roof  of  the  cabin. 

"No,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  don't  think  I 
ever  came  across  him." 

Under  the  blue  checked  apron  the  work-worn 
hands  again  twisted  in  a  knot.  ' '  He  was  always 
runnin'  away  when  he  warn't  nothin'  but  a  boy. 
He  wanted  to  see  everything  and  every  place 
what  was  in  the  world,  and  when  he  was  seven- 
teen he  went.  At  first  he  used  to  write,  but  he 
ain't  writ  for  two  years  come  next  twenty- 
seventh  of  August.  I — I  know  'tain't  no  use  in 
worryin'.  It  don't  help,  but  somehow  it  don't 
seem  like  you  can  talk  yourself  out  of  it  when 
somethin'  is  a-layin'  right  here  what  don't  ever 


WORRIES   AND   WORRYING 

go  away."  Her  hand  was  laid  for  a  moment  on 
her  breast.  "Every  night  I  gets  up  and  sets 
by  the  window  wonderin'  'bout  Jim,  and  don't 
a  day  go  by  that  I  ain't  a-lookin'  'tween  sun- 
up and  sundown  over  the  Gap  thinkin'  maybe 
he  might  be  comin'  back.  If  you  ever  see  him 
when  you  go  away  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  no 
matter  what  he  done  I'm  a — " 

' '  I  certainly  will. ' '  Colburn  got  up.  ' '  He'll 
come  back.  Don't  you  worry."  His  voice  was 
amazingly  cheerful.  "All  of  us  tell  one  another 
not  to  worry,  don't  we?  It's  the  other  fellow's 
worry  we're  wise  about.  Good  -  by,  Mrs. 
Hatch."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "If  I  see 
Mr.  Hatch,  shall  I  give  him  a  message?" 

In  his  shapely  hand,  with  its  long,  firm 
fingers,  the  stained  and  knotted  one  of  the 
mountain-woman  was  laid  limply,  then  she  with- 
drew it  and  pointed  to  the  box  at  the  stove. 

"Tell  him  I  say  it's  wood,  or  not  a  taste  of 
rabbit  do  he  get,  not  even  gravy.  Him  what 
don't  work  ain't  got  no  call  to  eat,  the  Scripture 
says,  and  it's  as  true  now  as  when  'twas  writ. 
And  tell  Miss  Taska  I  hope  she  ain't  a-goin'  to 
be  sure-enough  sick."  With  a  swift  movement 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  for  half  a  moment. 
"And  don't  you  worry,  young  man.  She's 
a-goin'  to  get  all  right!" 
205 


XIX 

IN   THE    FIRELIGHT 

ON  Friday  night  the  Doctor  had  not  re- 
turned. A  note  from  him  told  Colburn 
he  would  be  away  for  several  days  longer. 
Dr.  Morley  would  come  back  with  him,  and 
during  the  latter's  visit  their  talk  would  have 
to  be  delayed,  but  he  must  not  think  he  had 
forgotten. 

It  was  like  him  to  write,  and  like  him  to  make 
no  further  request  concerning  Taska.  Through 
the  latter  he  learned  something  of  the  nature 
of  his  mission  with  Dr.  Morley,  and  through  her 
learned  also  that  a  day  or  two  had  been  spent 
in  his  own  city. 

The  days  of  his  absence  passed  slowly.  The 
weather  was  bad,  the  March  winds  disagreeable, 
and  walking  at  times  impossible  on  account  of 
wind  and  rain,  and  to  kill  time  would  have  been 
difficult  had  not  Taska,  now  well  again,  sug- 
gested he  give  part  of  it  to  the  cottage  patients. 
At  first  he  had  hesitated.  By  nature  he  was 
206 


IN   THE    FIRELIGHT 

not  qualified  to  cheer  the  sick,  or  so  he  had 
imagined,  and  when  she  asked  him  to  go  with 
her  to  see  a  half-blind  boy  at  the  Blue-Bell 
cottage  who  was  compelled  to  be  continually  in 
bed  he  had  at  first  declined.  At  the  look  in 
her  face  of  amazement  his  own  had  flushed  and 
he  had  laughed  slightly. 

' '  You  think  I  am  selfish,  think  I  shrink  from 
disagreeable  things,  think — " 

"I  certainly  do!"  Her  voice  was  indignant. 
"I  think  you  think  a  good  deal  too  much  about 
your  own  feelings.  If  you  don't  want  to  do  a 
thing,  that  seems  sufficient  reason  for  not  doing 
it !  Suppose  you  were  ill  and  half  blind  and  had 
none  of  your  own  people  near  you,  and  you 
loved  to  read  and  couldn't  read,  and  the  days 
were  long  and  lonely  and — " 

"I'll  go!  Don't  rub  it  in."  His  voice  made 
effort  to  be  light,  and  failed.  "Since  my— 
Since  I  once  saw  great  suffering,  saw  death,  I 
have  shrunk  from  pain  in  others  as  the  veriest 
coward  shrinks,  but  I  admit  the  selfishness  and 
weakness.  Does  the  chap  like  books?" 

Each  day  he  had  read  to  the  boy,  talked  long 
with  him,  heard  his  story  and  that  of  several 
other  patients,  and  by  degrees  his  horror  of 
contact  with  sickness  in  any  form  wore  slightly 
away.  But  not  entirely  without  struggle  could 
207 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

he  go  from  Woodbine  to  Clematis,  from  Blue- 
Bell  to  Laurel,  as  the  cottages  were  called,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  Taska  there  would  have 
been  times  when  he  might  not  have  gone 
at  all. 

Very  busy  were  these  days  with  her.  There 
was  much  in  which  she  could  help  Mrs.  Bagley 
and  Miss  Neilson,  and,  though  he  saw  her  fre- 
quently, he  rarely  saw  her  alone. 

After  the  Doctor's  return,  and  while  his  guest 
was  still  with  him,  there  had  been  several  visits 
with  Taska  to  the  primitive  homes  of  certain 
of  her  mountaineer  friends;  and  during  these 
walks  she  had  talked  much  of  her  work  in  the 
past,  her  eagerness  to  get  back  to  it,  her  desire 
to  be  again  in  the  city,  be  strong  and  well  that 
she  might  do  her  part,  and,  most  of  all,  to  use  the 
opportunity  her  position  on  the  paper  gave  her 
to  write  about  those  things  in  which  she  was 
interested.  And  to  it  all  he  had  listened  in  a 
silence  she  may  have  noticed  or  may  not  have 
noticed. 

To  talk  impersonally  was  difficult.  Direct- 
ness was  instinct  and  intention.  That  which  he 
wanted  supremely  he  made  effort  to  get,  and  to 
be  bound  to  silence  was  well-nigh  beyond  en- 
durance. Until  the  Doctor  had  talked  with 
him  as  he  had  promised,  told  him  that  which  he 
208 


IN   THE    FIRELIGHT 

was  to  tell,  he  could  say  nothing.     He  would  not 
wait  indefinitely,  however. 

On  the  day  of  Dr.  Morley's  leaving,  which 
was  the  end  of  Colburn's  third  week  at  Piping 
Forest,  the  latter's  arm  was  touched  as  he  rose 
from  the  dinner-table. 

"Come  to  my  study  to-night,  Mr.  Colburn." 
The  Doctor's  voice  was  low.  "Come  about 
nine." 

To  the  minute  Colburn  was  at  the  study  door. 
To  the  "Come  in"  he  opened  it  and  entered. 
The  fire  was  blazing  cheerily,  but  the  lamp  on 
the  table  was  turned  down,  and  only  the  dancing 
firelight  broke  the  darkness  and  made  it  pos- 
sible to  see  across  the  room. 

In  his  low  leather  chair  the  Doctor  was  sitting, 
and  close  to  him,  on  a  square  mahogany  stool  up- 
holstered in  faded  tapestry  worked  by  fingers 
long  since  dead,  was  Taska,  one  hand  on  the 
arm  of  the  Doctor's  chair,  her  chin  in  the  palm 
of  the  other,  while  her  elbow  rested  on  her  knee 
and  her  eyes  looked  in  the  curling,  leaping 
flames. 

' '  Come  in,  my  son. ' '  The  Doctor  made  effort 
to  rise,  but  Taska,  who  had  turned,  held  him 
back. 

"Don't,"  she  said.     "You  are  tired.     Mr. 
Colburn  can  find  a  chair." 
209 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

At  his  entrance  Colburn  had  seen  her  start 
slightly.  He  was  glad  the  shadow  shielded  him, 
for  he,  too,  had  drawn  back  in  surprise.  Evi- 
dently his  coming  was  as  unexpected  to  her  as 
her  presence  was  to  him. 

Putting  his  coat  and  hat  on  a  chair  near  the 
door,  he  drew  up  the  one  opposite  Taska.  "I 
am  not  interrupting,  I  hope?"  Hand  on  the 
chair,  he  hesitated. 

"You're  not  interrupting."  Taska  nodded 
to  him  to  sit  down.  "He  was  just  telling  me 
some  of  the  things  he's  been  seeing  lately." 
She  turned  to  the  Doctor.  ' '  Did  you  hear  any 
new  stories  this  time?  Any  of  those  queer, 
strange  stories  you're  always  coming  across?" 

"Two  new  ones."  The  hand  holding  his  was 
patted,  and  the  Doctor  smiled.  "Every  life 
has  its  story — yours,  mine,  Mr.  Colburn's  here, 
every  one  you  know.  The  strangest  are  those 
found  in  unexpected  places." 

Taska  looked  into  the  leaping  flames.  "These 
new  ones — are  they  stories  you  can  tell?" 

With  a  movement  of  his  hand  the  Doctor 
turned  out  the  remaining  bit  of  light  in  the 
lamp,  but  not  before  Colburn  had  caught  a 
swift  glance  that  seemed  a  signal.  So  quickly 
did  it  pass  he  was  not  certain  it  was  sent,  and 
yet  it  seemed  meant  for  decision,  outreach, 
210 


IN   THE    FIRELIGHT 

surrender,  and,  moving  his  chair  slightly  back 
in  the  shadow  and  closer  to  the  table,  he  shaded 
his  eyes  from  the  firelight,  and  wished  he  could 
hold  his  heart  with  his  other  hand,  that  its  sud- 
den throbbing  might  grow  less. 

Was  he  going  to  tell  before  Taska  the  story 
he  had  come  to  hear  ?  For  a  moment  he  wished 
he  had  not  come.  To  lay  bare  hidden  hurt,  to 
revive  old  memories,  was  to  give  him  what  was 
not  deserved.  He  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
rise ;  but  the  Doctor's  hand  was  raised,  and  in  his 
eyes  was  something  not  to  be  ignored. 

"These  new  stories?  No,  I  cannot  tell  them, 
but  I  can  tell  you  an  old  story.  I  think  I  will 
tell  you  my  story.  It  is  not  long.  What  is  it — 
What  is  the  matter,  Taska?" 

"I — "  Her  face  was  crimson,  and  with  an 
unconscious  movement  her  hand  went  to  her 
throat.  Getting  up,  she  looked  around,  then 
slipped  down  on  the  footstool,  her  fingers  inter- 
locked. "I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  thought 
perhaps  you  were  too  tired.  Wouldn't  you 
rather  tell  it  some  other  night?" 

' '  No.     I  would  rather  tell  it  to-night. ' ' 

With  a  smile  her  hand  was  laid  for  a  moment 
on  his  cheek,  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
very  gentle. 

"Sometimes  one  likes  to  dwell  on  the  days  we 

211 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

think  are  dead.  As  we  grow  older  they  come 
back  again,  and  it  is  well  to  go  over  them  every 
now  and  then;  well  to  walk  among  their 
memories,  and  talk  of  what  made  them  sorrow- 
ful or  glad.  Mine  was  a  gay  youth.  There  is 
little  of  life  I  have  not  tasted,  but  I  will  not 
tell  of  that.  I  shall  only  tell  you  why  I  did 
not  marry  Diane  d'Estrees." 


XX 

THE    STORY    OF   DIANE 

r  I  ^HE  room  grew  still.  In  the  grate  the 
1  flames  had  ceased  their  leaping  and  the 
coals  were  red  with  steady  glow.  Colburn  had 
said  no  word,  but  his  eyes  were  on  Taska's, 
whose  for  a  swift  moment  had  been  caught  and 
held,  and  to  them  he  had  sent  a  message  that 
had  kept  her  silent,  kept  her  indeed  from  again 
raising  them  to  his. 

"I  was  twenty-seven  when  I  met  the  only 
woman  I  have  ever  loved. "  The  Doctor's  voice 
was  quiet  and  even.  "Her  name  was  Diane 
d'Estrees,  and  she  lived  with  her  parents  at 
the  chateau  in  Normandie  which  had  been 
occupied  by  her  family  for  many  generations. 
It  was  a  very  shabby  chateau.  Their  fortune, 
like  that  of  many  other  £migr£s,  had  never  been 
recovered  after  the  upheaval  by  which  they  had 
lost  it ;  and  when  I  met  them  they  were  poor, 
a  fact  of  which  they  seemed  unconscious,  and 
to  which  by  others  reference  was  never  made. 

15  213 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"  My  grandfather  had  lived,  before  coming  to 
America,  but  a  short  distance  from  the  Chateau 
Lamboise,  and  it  was  when  making  a  pilgrimage 
to  his  birthplace  that  I  met  Diane.  The  house 
in  which  he  was  born  had  been  burned  many 
years  before,  and  no  longer  did  any  of  the 
family  live  in  the  neighborhood,  but  at  the 
little  inn  in  the  village  of  Lamboise  I  found 
comfortable  quarters,  and  so  interesting  did  the 
place  prove  I  decided  to  spend  my  holiday  there 
rather  than  go  on  into  Touraine,  as  I  had  first 
planned  to  do. 

"  In  the  village  and  adjoining  country  I  found 
some  white-haired,  bent-bodied  peasants  who 
remembered  my  grandfather  and  his  brothers, 
they  having  once  worked  at  their  place,  and 
from  them  I  learned  that  Madame  d'Estr6es 
was  the  daughter  of  my  great-uncle,  Victor 
Grannere,  and  therefore  the  cousin  of  my 
father.  I  had  seen  her  pass  in  her  carriage,  a 
very  shaky  affair,  with  a  couple  of  horses  as 
ancient,  seemingly,  as  the  cockaded  individual 
who  sat  on  its  box,  but  I  did  not  like  her  looks 
and  felt  no  desire  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
Our  lives  were  very  far  apart,  our  worlds  of 
very  different  kind,  and  in  a  few  days,  or  weeks 
at  most,  I  would  go  away.  I  did  not  want  to 
be  bothered.  I  wanted  my  time  entirely  at 
214 


THE    STORY   OF    DIANE 

my  own  disposal,  wanted  to  wander  at  will 
along  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  on  the  perfect 
roads,  and  in  the  by-paths  which  led  to  quaint 
and  surprising  places,  and  so  I  made  no  effort 
to  meet  this  cousin  of  my  father.  I  never 
thought  of  her  as  being  relative  of  mine. 
Though  I  heard  there  was  a  daughter,  I  did  not 
see  her,  and  in  happy  idling  the  first  week  of 
my  holiday  passed  quickly. 

"Daily  I  would  take  my  lunch  in  front  of 
Gaspard's  rose-covered  little  inn,  where  I 
could  watch  the  village  people  come  and  go, 
catch  bits  of  their  talk,  and  listen  to  their  com- 
ments; and  there  at  night,  after  a  good  dinner 
and  a  good  bottle  of  wine,  I  would  talk  with 
Gaspard  over  my  cigar  and  hear  from  him  tales 
of  romance  and  adventure  that  were  more 
amazing  than  Dumas  or  Balzac  had  yet  given 
to  the  world. 

"I  had  finished  the  medical  course  I  had 
come  to  take  in  Paris.  Two  years  had  been 
spent  there  and  in  Vienna,  where  special  labora- 
tory work  had  been  done,  and  in  September  I 
was  going  back  for  one  more  year  in  Paris  before 
returning  to  America.  I  was  very  comfortable 
and  care-free.  With  a  little  economy  my  income 
was  sufficient  for  my  needs,  for,  though  I  loved 
life,  its  follies  never  specially  appealed,  and  the 
215 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

lack  of  great  wealth  had  never  worried  me. 
The  future  was  but  the  chance  in  which  to  do 
things.  Of  these  things  the  chief  was  some  day 
to  be  at  the  head  of  my  profession,  to  be  an 
authority  to  which  the  medical  world  would 
listen. 

"It  was  on  the  third  day  before  I  was  to  leave 
Lamboise,  a  perfect  day  of  late  June — the 
twenty-ninth  it  was — that  I  met  Diane.  I  was 
coming  back  from  a  long  tramp  in  the  woods,  and 
half  a  mile  from  the  village  I  saw  a  horse  with 
a  side-saddle  on  it  grazing  along  the  road.  It 
struck  me  as  queer,  but,  seeing  no  one,  I  was 
about  to  pass  on  when  I  looked  again,  and  sitting 
under  a  tree,  one  foot  outstretched  and  one 
drawn  up  in  her  lap,  was  the  loveliest  and 
angriest  creature  I  have  ever  seen. 

'"Are  you  deaf  or  blind  that  you  do  not  hear 
or  see?'  she  said,  and  had  she  been  standing 
her  foot  would  have  been  stamped.  'For  an 
hour,  an  eternity,  I  have  been  here,  and  not  a 
soul  has  passed.  My  horse  has  thrown  me  and 
I  cannot  walk!' 

"I  went  to  her.  Throwing  my  hat  on  the 
ground,  I  knelt  beside  her  on  the  grass. 

'"Which  foot  is  it?'  I  said.  'Where  is  the 
pain?' 

'"Everywhere.    I  must  get  home.' 
216 


THE    STORY   OF    DIANE 

"Her  hand  was  on  the  ankle  of  her  right 
foot,  and,  pushing  it  aside,  I  began  to  unbutton 
the  high  riding-boot.  The  ankle  was  greatly 
swollen  and  the  pain  must  have  been  intense, 
but,  save  by  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  she  gave 
no  sign,  and  for  a  half -moment  amazement  kept 
her  dumb.  As  I  pulled  off  the  boot,  however, 
she  leaned  forward  and,  taking  up  her  riding- 
whip,  struck  me  across  the  face. 

' ' '  How  dare  you !'  she  said,  and  tried  to  get  up. 

"I  pushed  her  back.  'Behave  yourself!'  I 
said.  'I  am  a  doctor!'  And  in  anger  as  great 
as  hers  I  threw  the  whip  across  the  road. 

"She  had  never  been  so  spoken  to  before. 
Later  I  found  how  it  must  have  amazed  her, 
how  my  taking  off  her  boot  must  have  amazed 
her.  She  said  nothing  more,  and  after  binding 
the  ankle  as  best  I  could  with  my  handkerchief 
I  found  the  horse,  took  her  in  my  arms  and  put 
her  in  the  saddle,  then,  leading  him  by  the 
bridle,  got  her  to  her  home,  but  a  short  distance 
away." 

In  both  of  his  the  Doctor  was  now  holding 
Taska's  hand.  Her  heart  was  beating  in 
thick,  quick  throbs,  and  her  breath  came  un- 
steadily. Why  was  he  telling  this  to-night? 
Why,  after  all  these  years  of  silence,  was  he 
telling — 

217 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"I  did  not  go  back  to  Paris."  The  quiet 
voice  again  took  up  its  story.  "The  sprain 
was  not  a  bad  one,  but  the  village  doctor  was 
away,  and  Madame  d'Estrees  insisted  upon  my 
attending  her  daughter.  Naturally,  our  rela- 
tionship was  discovered,  and  a  thousand  ques- 
tions had  to  be  asked  and  answered.  For  two 
months  I  did  not  live  on  earth.  For  two  months 
I  saw  Diane  daily,  and  were  there  to  be  no 
heaven  when  this  life  is  done  I  still  should 
know  what  heaven  is. 

' '  I  was  as  new  a  type  to  Diane  as  she  to  me, 
and  we  cared  not  who  knew  that  we  had  found 
each  other.  At  first  her  parents  did  not 
realize  to  what  our  friendship  was  leading  and, 
when  I  asked  her  father  for  her  he  was  excited 
and  uneasy  and  weakly  protested,  but  it  was  the 
mother  who  was  violent  in  opposition.  They 
were  poor.  Diane  was  expected  to  marry  a 
fortune  and  restore  the  ancient  chateau  to  its 
former  glory,  and  I — I  was  nothing  but  a  young 
physician  with  fame  as  yet  unearned  and  with 
an  income  but  little  more  than  enough  for  my 
own  needs. 

' '  I  was  asked  out  of  the  house,  ordered  out  of 

it.     Though  they  were  afraid  of  Diane,  though 

they  knew  how  imperious  was  her  will,  how 

unbridled  her  temper,  how  determined  her  in- 

218 


THE    STORY   OF    DIANE 

tentions,  they  were  more  afraid  of  a  future  in 
which  there  was  no  money,  and  Diane  was  told 
she  was  to  marry  the  man  who  for  some  time 
had  been  waiting  to  marry  her,  and  I  was  for- 
bidden to  see  or  speak  with  her  again.  Diane 
laughed  at  them,  defied  them,  and  told  them 
she  would  marry  me  or  marry  not  at  all. 

"For  days  we  would  meet  and  wander  down 
the  long,  straight,  tree-lined  road,  in  the  forest 
by-paths,  or  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  where 
we  would  watch  the  boats  on  their  way  to  or 
from  Havre  or  Rouen,  but  I  never  went  again 
to  the  house  of  Madame  and  Monsieur  d'Es- 
trees.  I  was  an  American,  and  my  blood  was  as 
hot  as  theirs  was  calculating,  and  Diane  under- 
stood. We  were  too  happy  to  care  greatly  for 
anything  save  each  other.  In  Diane  were  such 
varying  personalities  that  I  was  in  continual 
bewilderment,  and  life  was  joy  so  rich  and  great 
and  mysterious  that  we  thought  only  of  the 
day  before  us  and  left  to-morrow  for  itself. 

"As  fall  came  on,  however,  I  knew  I  must 
go  back  to  work.  Diane  was  told.  My  little 
money  was  understood,  as  was  my  much  love, 
but  she  was  willing  to  marry  me,  go  with  me  into 
the  life  that  must  be  quiet  and  simple,  and  we 
agreed  to  be  married  by  a  priest  in  the  next 
village,  leave  at  once  for  Paris,  and  then  send 
219 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

word  to  her  parents.  About  her  was  always 
something  of  defiance,  of  daring,  and  readily 
she  fell  in  with  the  plans  suggested.  From  the 
day  of  her  birth  her  will  had  never  been  crossed, 
her  wishes  disregarded,  and  she  would  brook 
no  interference  now.  Her  beauty  was  so 
blinding,  her  brain  so  quick  and  clever,  that  all 
the  ambitions  of  the  French  mother's  heart  had 
been  centered  in  a  brilliant  match  for  her,  and 
that  she  should  love  me  was  as  unbelievable  as 
it  was  enraging,  and  for  the  first  time  Diane 
met  opposition  to  her  will." 

Changing  his  position  slightly,  the  Doctor 
leaned  back  in  his  chair.  In  his  cheeks  two 
spots  of  color  burned  deeply,  and  in  his  eyes  was 
the  light  of  youth.  Watching,  Colburn  felt 
that  he  and  Taska  were  forgotten,  and  in 
reality,  as  in  spirit,  the  lover  was  with  his  love 
again.  In  his  own  face  the  color  crept  and 
stayed. 

"Youth  has  its  pride  as  well  as  age,  however." 
In  the  quiet  voice  was  something  now  of 
weariness.  "I  wanted  to  give  Diane  a  name 
that  stood  for  something,  a  name  known  in  the 
world  of  science  and  medicine,  wanted  to  take 
her  to  a  home  which  should  be  a  proper  setting 
for  her  brilliance  and  beauty,  and  for  days  I 
struggled  with  my  desire  to  marry  her  at  once 

220 


THE    STORY   OF    DIANE 

or  go  back  to  my  work  and  win  the  position  to 
which  she  was  entitled.  I  could  win  it.  The 
power  was  in  me,  but  it  meant  to  wait,  and  I 
did  not  want  to  wait. 

"A  week  after  agreeing  on  the  date  of  our  mar- 
riage I  received  a  letter  from  the  professor  with 
whom  I  had  done  my  best  work  offering  me  a 
position  as  his  assistant  that  would  give  me 
opportunities  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  for.  But 
it  would  mean  that  I  must  live  with  him  for 
some  months,  give  to  him  my  entire  time,  and 
receive  in  return  much  more  experience  than 
money.  If  I  accepted,  marriage  for  the  time 
being  was  out  of  the  question. 

"I  did  not  tell  Diane  of  this  offer.  My  pro- 
fessional future  was  in  the  balance,  and  to  turn 
the  offer  down  was  to  trifle  with  the  chance  of  a 
lifetime.  I  wrote  I  would  accept,  and  then  told 
Diane." 

The  Doctor's  hand  went  to  his  head,  and  his 
hair  was  brushed  back  absently,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  silence  was  unbroken;  then  again  he 
spoke. 

"Diane,  proud  and  imperious,  ready  to  sur- 
render, willing  to  yield  her  life  to  mine,  giving 
the  love  withheld  from  all  others  without  re- 
serve to  me,  was  told,  it  matters  not  with  how 
much  suffering,  that  marriage  must  wait  upon 

221 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

professional  ambition,  and  that  I  must  leave  in 
a  few  days.  She  saw  my  pain,  knew  it,  but  as 
if  some  secret  spring  had  been  touched,  blaze 
sprang  in  her  eyes  and  the  haughtiness  of  her 
race  to  her  lips,  and  she  bade  me  go  at  once, 
bade  me  leave  her  without  delay.  I —  It  is 
not  necessary  to  tell  of  the  days  that  followed. 
Later  I  learned  much  I  did  not  then  know  of  the 
heritage  that  was  behind  her,  a  heritage  to  be 
reckoned  with. 

"She  would  not  let  me  see  her  again.  My 
letters  were  returned.  Pride  was  her  imperial 
weakness,  and  she  scorned  my  efforts  to  explain. 
I  said  just  now  that  I  have  lived  in  heaven.  I 
have.  But  I  have  also  lived  in  hell.  A  week 
after  I  went  to  Paris  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  she 
had  married  Count  L'Anneville,  a  man  of  cor- 
rupt character,  considerable  wealth,  and  but 
little  younger  than  her  father." 

In  the  grate  the  coals  were  turning  gray. 
Leaning  forward,  the  Doctor  looked  for  a  mo- 
ment at  their  ashes,  then  he  got  up. 

"Her  picture  is  in  the  other  room.  Would 
you  like  to  see  it,  Taska?  Mr.  Colburn,  take 
her  in  and  show  it  to  her  while  I  fix  the  fire. 
When  you  come  back  it  will  be  bright  and  warm 
again." 


XXI 

THE    STORY    CONTINUED 

OPENING  the  door,  Colburn  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  knob  and  waited  for  Taska 
to  pass  inside.  As  she  did  so  he  followed  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

On  the  mantel  the  two  tall  candles  were 
already  lighted,  and  the  wine-colored  curtain, 
drawn  from  the  painting,  was  held  back  by  its 
cord.  Taking  up  the  small  candle  from  the 
table  as  he  had  seen  the  Doctor  do,  Colburn 
lighted  it  and  held  it  aloft. 

"This  way,"  he  said.  "You  can  see  it  best 
from  here." 

As  if  afraid,  Taska  drew  nearer.  She  felt 
herself  intrusive,  felt  she  was  seeing  something 
she  should  not  see,  hearing  faint  echoes  that 
should  not  be  heard ;  and  in  her  hands  holding 
rose  leaves  and  mignonette,  faded  and  fragrant, 
which  belonged  to  some  one  else,  and  she  was 
frightened. 

Save  from  the  light  of  the  candles  the  room 
223 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

was  dark,  and  also  it  was  cold.  Watching, 
Colburn  saw  her  shiver. 

"Quick!"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  impera- 
tive. "You  must  not  stay  in  here.  It  is  very- 
beautiful,  but — 

Instead  of  looking  at  the  picture  she  looked 
at  him,  then  drew  back,  and  her  hands  went 
to  her  breast.  He  would  remember.  He  could 
speak  no  word,  but  he  was  mortal,  and  in  his 
eyes  was  message  that  surged  and  swept  and 
drew  her  to  him ;  and  he,  too,  forgot  what  they 
had  come  to  see. 

For  a  moment  she  shrank,  then  she  looked 
in  the  face  above  hers,  and  in  her  own  was  flood 
of  crimson. 

"You — you  have  seen  it  before?" 

"I  have  seen  it  before." 

In  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sputtering  of 
the  draught-blown  candles,  they  looked  upon 
the  picture;  then  Taska  turned  to  him. 

"Why  is  he  telling  this  to-night?  It  is  not 
right  that  we  should  hear.  It  breaks  one's 
heart  to  know  what  he  has  suffered.  I  can't 
— can't  understand!" 

"I  think — I  understand." 

Colburn's  voice  made  effort  to  be  steady,  but 
it  was  not  steady.  The  hands  before  him  were 
trembling,  and  he  could  not  take  them  in  his 
224 


THE    STORY    CONTINUED 

own.  He  blew  out  the  candle  he  was  holding, 
put  it  down,  and  again  his  eyes  searched  hers, 
appealed,  asserted,  and  absorbed. 

"Are  you  sure  you  do  not  understand — 
Taska?" 

At  her  name  she  drew  back.  "Why  should 
I  understand?"  she  said,  and  her  face  whitened. 
"We  must  not  stay.  We  must  go  to  him." 

The  fire  was  blazing  cheerily.  The  crackling 
coals  flared  and  blew  out  flames  of  gold  and  red 
and  purple  glow;  and,  sitting  down,  Taska  and 
Colburn  waited,  and  then  Taska  spoke. 

"It  is  very  beautiful."  Her  hands  held  the 
Doctor's  tightly.  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  you — 

' '  No  one  would  wonder  had  they  known  her. 
It  was  her  beauty  alone;  brilliance  and  much 
besides  were  equally  her  birthright.  Had  her 
mind  not  been  of  so  keen  and  sensitive  a 
quality  it  might  perhaps — 

"For  me  there  was  but  one  chance  in  life,  and 
that  lay  in  work.  By  day  and  night  I  kept  at 
it  until  I  would  fall  asleep  at  my  desk  or  on  my 
feet  in  the  laboratory.  The  brain  and  nervous 
system  were  my  specialties,  and  as  assistant 
to  a  surgeon  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  the  great 
Broca  I  had  opportunities  that  could  come  to 
me  in  no  other  way.  The  influence  of  Het- 
zig,  Ferrier,  Luciani,  Charcot,  and  others  was 
225 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

strongly  affecting  the  medical  world  of  which 
Paris  for  some  time  had  been  the  center,  and 
the  lecture-rooms  at  that  time  were  crowded 
with  students  from  all  countries.  I  had  expected 
to  give  my  life  to  the  study  of  the  brain,  but 
the  passion  with  which  I  now  gave  my  entire 
time  to  it  was  only  to  keep  from  thinking  of 
other  things.  There  was  no  longer  interest.  I 
had  no  feeling  for  it.  I  alone  had  wrecked  my 
life.  I  alone  was  to  blame  for  what  had  hap- 
pened. Diane  was  as  unlike  the  average 
woman  in  temperament  and  mentality  as  in 
physical  beauty,  and  I  had  dared  to  dally  with 
a  love  that  on  my  knees  I  should  have  daily 
thanked  my  God  for  having  granted  me.  In 
the  rebound  of  pride  at  what  she  believed  was 
the  putting  of  my  profession  before  her  she  had 
married  the  man  her  parents  wished.  In  some- 
thing less  than  a  year  after  she  married  she 
became  insane." 

In  his  low  chair  the  Doctor  leaned  back,  and 
presently  the  quiet  tones  again  took  up  the 
tale. 

"Late  one  night,  shortly  after  I  had  learned 
of  what  had  happened,  I  was  reading  in  my 
room  when  I  heard  a  noise  behind  me.  Turn- 
ing, I  saw  Diane.  Though  excited,  she  seemed 
rational  and  told  me  how,  with  the  aid  of  a 
226 


THE    STORY    CONTINUED 

bribed  nurse,  she  had  managed  to  escape  from 
the  institution  in  which  her  husband  had 
placed  her,  told  me  also  she  would  never  go  back, 
begged  me  to  kill  her  first.  As  she  spoke  of 
the  past  she  suddenly  became  mad  again,  and 
for  hours  I  fought  with  her.  In  the  morning 
she  was  quiet,  but — 

' '  The  trouble  was  hereditary.  On  her  father's 
side  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  it.  It  would 
probably  never  have  developed  had — had  her 
life  been  different.  From  the  first  I  knew 
there  was  no  cure. 

"Some  distance  from  the  city  was  a  little  cot- 
tage with  trees  and  a  garden,  and  I  put  her 
in  it  with  the  best  nurse  to  be  found,  and  took 
a  couple  of  rooms  for  myself  in  the  village  near 
by.  Her  husband,  hearing  she  had  escaped  from 
the  asylum,  made  no  inquiry  concerning  her, 
and  a  few  months  later  died.  Her  parents 
came  to  see  her  but  once — the  effect  was  harm- 
ful, and  to  repeat  it  unwise.  For  eighteen  years 
she  lived  there.  When  she  died  I  left  France 
and  came  to  Piping  Forest.  Your  father 
bought  the  place  for  me,  Taska.  He  knew 
what  I  wanted.  I  have  been  very  happy  here." 

A  coal  dropped  on  the  hearth,  and,  leaning 
forward,  Taska  brushed  it  under  the  grate. 

"And  she — was  she — " 
227 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

' '  Yes. ' '  The  Doctor  held  tightly  the  hand  she 
slipped  into  his.  "She  sang  a  good  deal. 
Part  of  each  day  I  spent  with  her,  and  she  un- 
derstood the  rest  of  the  time  must  be  for  work. 
For  a  while  there  were  bad  days,  cruel,  bitter 
days,  but  gradually  the  brain-cells  that  control 
memory,  control  many  things,  gave  way,  and 
she  became  quiet  and  quite  happy.  In  the 
first  few  years  there  were  fleeting  moments  of 
time  in  which  she  knew,  as  I  knew  all  the  time, 
that  the  chance  of  living  in  the  only  house  that 
can  give  happiness  had  been  ours  and  we  had 
lost  it.  It  mattered  not  that,  unknowing,  we 
had  done  this.  Love  alone  gives  light  to  life,  and 
I  had  failed  to  follow  where  it  led,  followed,  in- 
stead, ambition,  as  she  had  yielded  to  high  and 
outraged  pride.  Taska,  child,  your  hands  are 
very  cold!  Why,  Taska,  you  are  crying!" 

"I'm  not  crying!"  Taska  got  up.  "I'm  not 
crying,  but —  Oh,  Doctor-man!  Doctor-man!" 

Drawing  her  to  him,  he  lifted  her  face  and 
looked  into  the  eyes  which  fell  before  his,  touched 
her  hair  lightly  with  his  lips,  then  held  her  off. 

"Good  night,  child!  I've  tired  you  with  my 
story.  Forget  it.  Mr.  Colburn  and  I  will  talk 
a  little  longer.  He  has  not  smoked  a  pipe  from 
Piping  Forest  yet. ' '  He  turned  his  head.  "Is 
that  some  one  knocking?" 
228 


THE    STORY    CONTINUED 

For  a  moment  each  listened;  then,  as  the 
knock  was  sturdily  repeated,  Colburn,  in  an- 
swer to  a  nod  from  the  Doctor,  crossed  the  room 
and  opened  the  door. 

A  blast  of  cold  air  and  darkness  was  at  first 
all  that  was  felt  and  seen,  and  then  a  boy  sprang 
inside.  His  cheeks  were  bitten  by  the  wind, 
and  his  hands,  red  and  chapped,  twisted  his 
cap  excitedly,  and  in  the  firelight  they  saw 
Cricket. 

"It's  me,  Mr.  Colburn,"  he  said.  "It's  me! 
Teenie  is —  Teenie  don't  need  me  any  more, 
and  I've  come!" 

16 


XXII 

THE    ARRIVAL 

COR  half  an  hour  there  was  confusion  of 
*•  tongues.  Cricket's  surprising  appearance 
gave  opportunity  for  an  expression  of  feel- 
ing that  could  have  no  other  outlet,  and  with 
arms  around  him  Taska  held  him  close. 

"Cricket,"  she  said,  "oh,  Cricket,  I  did  not 
know  how  much  I  loved  you!  How  much  I 
wanted  you!  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!" 

"So'm  I." 

Cricket  pulled  and  rubbed  his  fingers,  too 
cold  and  hurting  to  be  yet  held  to  the  fire, 
and  looked  first  at  one  and  then  the  other. 
"But  you  ain't  got  roads  what's  golden  streets 
in  this  part  of  the  world !  You  ought  to 
heard  Mr.  Pepper-pot  swear!  I'm  a  baby  in 
long  clothes  to  him."  A  string  was  pulled  from 
around  his  neck  and  held  up.  "Ain't  a  knot 
in  it,  but  if  'twas  Mr.  Pepper-pot's — 

"Mr.  who?" 

The  Doctor,  who  had  given  warm  welcome 
230 


THE    ARRIVAL 

to  the  little  stranger,  and,  in  the  first  amazed 
greetings  of  Colburn  and  Taska,  had  stood 
aside,  leaned  forward.  "Mr.  who?" 

"Mr.  Pepper-pot.  He's  in  there. "  Cricket's 
hand  was  waved  behind  him.  "Him  and  I 
come  together.  Is  this" — his  eyes  roamed 
around  the  big,  cheery,  shabby  room  of  books 
and  firelight,  and  came  back  to  his  friends— 
"is  this  where  you  all  live  now,  Miss  Taska?" 

But  Taska  did  not  answer.  "Pepper-pot?" 
she  said.  "Pepper-pot  here?  Please  hurry, 
doctor-man!  They  must  be  starving.  I  can't 
take  it  in!" 

"I  ain't  starvin',  exactly,  but  I  could  take 
anything  in."  Cricket  blew  on  his  ringers. 
"He  warn't  feelin'  religious  when  I  left  him, 
and  I  reckon  you'd  better  get  him  something 
hot;  he  was  'most  frozen." 

Colburn's  hand  went  out  to  the  boy's  shoulder. 
So  far  there  had  been  only  exclamations  of  sur- 
prise and  astonishment,  of  welcome  and  amazed 
questioning  as  to  when  he  had  left  Baywood,  how 
he  had  come,  how  he  had  made  the  seven-mile 
drive  from  the  little  station  to  the  mountain-top; 
and  for  the  first  time  Colburn  noticed  that  the 
boy's  lips  were  blue  and  his  hands  trembling. 

"We'd  better  go  over  to  the  house  and  get 
them  something  to  eat,"  he  said,  and  turned  to 
231 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

the  Doctor.  "Do  you  suppose  Mrs.  Bagley  is 
up?" 

"Sure  of  it.  Jane  never  goes  to  bed  as  long 
as  she  can  hold  her  eyes  open.  Taska,  you 
will  want  to  see  your  old  friend,  but  don't  stay 
up  late  to-night.  We  will  look  after  him,  and 
to-morrow  you  can  talk  all  day." 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  put  him? 
There  isn't  a  spot — Mrs.  Bagley  told  me  so 
yesterday." 

"Oh  yes,  there  is."  For  a  swift  moment  the 
Doctor  hesitated.  The  one  luxury  he  allowed 
himself  was  the  privacy  of  night  when  the  day's 
work  was  done,  and  its  surrender  meant  much. 
"We  can  take  care  of  him."  He  nodded  tow- 
ard his  door.  "There's  a  little  room  adjoining 
mine ;  he  can  use  that  to-night.  To-morrow  we 
will  make  him  more  comfortable." 

"To-morrow  mine  can  be  fixed  for  him." 
Taska  looked  up.  "Mr.  Wiley  goes  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  then  I  can  have  his.  Oh,  Cricket! 
It's  like  spring-time  to  have  you  here — have  you 
with  us  again!" 

A  few  minutes  later  they  stood  before  the 
blazing  fire  Mrs.  Bagley  was  chunking  as 
vigorously  as  she  was  talking  energetically,  and, 
huddled  in  a  shrunken  heap  before  it,  hands 
outstretched,  was  Mr.  McKenzie.  In  his  voice 
232 


THE   ARRIVAL 

and  eyes  were  the  snap  and  fire  of  other  days, 
however,  and  at  Taska's  joyous  greeting  and  the 
hearty  handshakes  of  the  men  he  sniffed  scorn- 
fully. 

"Born  a  fool  and  a  fool  I'll  die  when  it  comes 
to  doing  certain  things,"  he  said,  and  his  fingers 
were  waved  stiffly.  "Couldn't  stand  that 
durned  place  any  longer,  and  when  the  boy 
said  he  was  coming,  I  came,  too.  Had  to  see 
you,  Taska."  His  hand  went  out  to  the  girl 
beside  him,  and  in  her  warm  ones  she  held  it 
close.  "But  get  rid  of  your  vain  pride  and 
glory  in  being  a  Virginian.  Your  state  has 
given  great  men  to  the  country,  but  this  part 
of  it  has  the  rottenest  roads  on  earth!  We 
were  nearly  three  hours  driving  here  from  the 
station,  suh!  Nearly  three  hours;  and  when 
we  get  here  no  mention  made  of  a  hot  toddy!" 

The  Doctor  laughed.  His  fine,  keen  face, 
with  its  quiet  and  intellectual  quality,  was  in 
such  contrast  to  the  querulous,  clever,  imperi- 
ous one  of  the  little  South-Carolinian  that  Col- 
burn,  watching,  hardly  noticed  the  words  of  the 
latter  until  the  Doctor  spoke;  then  he,  too, 
smiled. 

"The  toddy  is  being  made,  Mr.  McKenzie. 
Jane  still  makes  them  occasionally,  but  we'll 
get  you  warm  in  a  wiser  way  in  a  few  minutes." 
233 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"Don't  like  wise  ways;  and  don't  get  off 
modern  nonsense,  my  dear  suh!  I  prefer  ex- 
perience to  theory,  and,  moreover,  science 
admits  the  effect  and  influence  of  imagination. 
For  certain  purposes  the  Bible  commends  a 
little  wine.  Taska,  child,  are  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

On  her  knees  beside  him  Taska  took  the 
shriveled,  finely  formed  fingers  in  her  warm 
young  hands  and  rubbed  them  into  life  again. 
They  had  never  done  a  day's  work,  never  been 
soiled  from  exercise  more  strenuous  than  that 
of  the  pen,  but  they  had  never  held  back  help 
that  could  be  given,  or  dealt  a  blow  in  the  dark, 
and  as  she  rubbed  them  she  laughed. 

"I'm  so  glad  I'd  like  to  cry!"  Her  eyes 
filled,  but  they  were  strangely  happy.  "To 
have  you  and  Cricket  drop  down  from  the 
sky  is  so  exciting  I  haven't  any  sense.  And  it 
isn't  going  to  hurt  you — the  tiresome  trip  and 
the  long  ride  and  all  the  other  things.  You'll 
be  all  right  to-morrow.  It  will  be  warm  and 
lovely  and — " 

"Nasty  month,  March!  Don't  like  it;  never 
did.  Treacherous!  And  I  hate  wind.  Ah, 
here's  the  thing  that  looks  Virginian!" 

The  little  man  rose;  and  as  Mrs.  Bagley, 
beaming  as  cheerily  as  the  toddy  was  steaming 
234 


THE   ARRIVAL 

warmly,  held  the  tall,  thin  glass  toward  him  on 
a  silver  tray  of  old-fashioned  pattern  he  bowed 
gallantly,  first  at  her  and  then  at  the  others. 

"A  man  under  fifty  I  never  ask  to  drink." 
He  waved  his  hand  in  Colburn's  direction. 
' '  I  hope  your  theories  will  keep  you  warm,  suh !" 
At  the  Doctor  he  bowed  again.  ' '  It  touches  the 
spot,  madam!  I'm  all  spot  to-night,  and  that 
boy  there  is  all  emptiness.  He  hasn't  tasted 
food  since  one  o'clock." 

With  a  cry  of  pitying  horror  Mrs.  Bagley 
gathered  him  to  her,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
all  were  in  the  dining-room  and  Cricket  was  de- 
vouring food  too  eagerly  to  talk.  But  after  a 
while  many  questions  were  asked  and  answered, 
many  inquiries  made  of  Baywood  friends  and 
Baywood  happenings,  and  then  Mrs.  Bagley, 
who  had  slipped  away  with  one  of  the  maids, 
after  a  few  words  with  the  Doctor,  came  back 
and  announced  that  Mr.  McKenzie's  room  was 
ready,  and  that  for  Cricket  a  cot  had  been 
placed  in  Mr.  Colburn's  room  for  the  night. 
Ten  minutes  later  Colburn  and  Cricket  were  up- 
stairs together,  and  for  the  first  time  they  gave 
good  greeting  to  each  other,  for  the  first  time 
were  free  to  speak  without  restraint. 

Piling  the  wood  on  the  fire  until  it  roared  and 
crackled,  Colburn  drew  two  chairs  up  to  it,  and 
235 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

for  the  clothes  and  shoes  which  were  travel- 
worn  and  muddy  he  got  out  a  woolen  bath- 
robe and  a  pair  of  slippers ;  and  when  the  warm 
bath,  ordered  by  the  Doctor  for  Cricket,  was 
over  he  was  bundled  in  his  new  possessions  and 
told  to  put  his  feet  on  the  fender  and  let  it  out — 
that  which  he  must  let  out  before  sleep  could 
come. 

In  delicious  warmth  and  comfort  Cricket 
curled  up  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  his  friend, 
but  before  he  spoke  of  his  own  affairs  he  asked 
of  his. 

"  Is  it  coming  along  all  right  ?  Is  it  going  the 
way  you  want?"  he  asked;  and  his  voice  was 
that  of  an  awed  whisper. 

Colburn  shifted  the  position  of  the  top  log 
and  looked  in  the  fire.  "Is  what  going  the  way 
I  want?" 

Cricket  stared  a  moment.  At  any  one  else 
the  look  would  have  been  skeptical,  but  at 
Colburn  it  was  uncertain. 

"Maybe  I  oughtn't  to  ask,"  he  said,  and 
rubbed  the  ankle  of  his  right  foot  with  the  hot 
slippered  sole  of  his  left.  "I  don't  mean  about 
the  Tuber  part.  If  you'd  been  born  all  over 
you  couldn't  look  weller.  But  I  mean  about 
her.  Golly,  she's  beautiful!  Does  she  ever 
make  you  feel  you'd  kill  a  person  if  he  hurt 
236 


THE   ARRIVAL 

her?  I  feel  that  way  sometimes  when  I  look 
at  her,  but  I  reckon  she's  contrarious  like  all  the 
rest,  when  the  notion  hits  her.  Mr.  Pepper- 
pot  says  women  can't  help  being  contrarious. 
It's  in  'em,  and  they  can  give  a  man  more 
trouble  than  he'd  stand  for  if  he  could  help  it, 
but  he  can't  help.  I  didn't  mean  to  ask  you 
what  I  oughtn't.  I  was  just  a-hoping — 
Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  about  Teenie?" 

Colburn  nodded,  took  up  his  pipe,  lighted  it, 
and  began  to  smoke.  Under  the  excitement 
and  eager  interest  in  his  new  surroundings  he 
had  felt  the  heart  of  the  boy  was  filled  with 
something  well  hidden  and  yet  absorbing,  and 
until  it  was  unburdened  he  would  be  restless. 
He  must  let  it  out. 

"It's  good  to  have  you,  old  man."  His  hand 
for  a  moment  was  laid  on  his  little  friend's. 
"I  knew  you'd  come  when  you  could.  When 
did  it  happen,  Cricket?" 

"A  week  ago  yesterday.  You  hadn't  been 
gone  but  five  days  when  she  was  took  worse. 
She  didn't  say  much,  but  I  knew,  and  I  couldn't 
sleep  nights  for  wondering  what  I  could  do, 
and  there  warn't  anything  I  could  do;  and 
then  one  day  I  opened  that  envelope  you  gave 
me.  I  hadn't  ever  seen  that  much  money  be- 
fore, and  I  spent  it — spent  every  bit." 
237 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

The  words  came  solemnly,  came  as  if  their 
wickedness  and  wastefulness  were  understood. 

' '  I  gave  it  to  you  to  spend — 

"I  know,  but  not  that  way.  You  told  me  to 
use  it  when  I  needed  it,  and  I  bought  a  grampo- 
fone  with  it.  I  used  to  tell  her  about  the  mov- 
ing pictures  and  the  songs  the  machine  would 
grind  out,  and  she  couldn't  understand,  and 
she  wanted  awful  bad  to  hear  one.  When  I  saw 
all  that  money  I  went  over  to  Wakefield  and 
bought  one.  It  cost  twenty  dollars.  And  when 
I  was  coming  back  with  it  I  saw  some  pink  roses 
in  a  shop,  prettiest  roses  I  ever  saw,  and  I  went 
in  and  bought  a  dozen  of  'em.  They  cost  four 
dollars.  It  didn't  seem  much  then.  Didn't 
anything  seem  much.  All  I  was  thinking  'bout, 
I  reckon,  was  just  trying  to  make  her  laugh  once 
more,  and  she  did  laugh.  She  kept  one  of 
them  roses  in  her  hands  all  the  time.  One  was 
in  them  when — 

"I'm  going  to  pay  you  back.  I  didn't  think 
you'd  mind  if  you  could  have  seen  how  she 
loved  to  hear  that  thing.  The  funny  pieces 
she  didn't  care  much  for,  but  the  soft  ones — 
All  day  I'd  play  it  for  her,  'cept  when  she  was 
asleep.  One  night  she  asked  me  to  hold  her 
up,  and  I  held  her,  and  she  said  no  matter  what 
folks  told  me  when  I  got  to  be  a  man,  not  to  let 
238 


THE   ARRIVAL 

'em  make  me  think  she  wouldn't  be  waiting, 
and  that  morning  just  about  sun-up  she — she 
went  away." 

A  log  dropped  on  the  andirons,  but  Colburn 
let  it  alone.  Cricket  changed  his  position. 

"The  rest  of  the  money  I  give  Mis'  Lemmon 
so  the  last  things  could  be  right."  He  sat  up. 
"Once  I  heard  a  preacher  spiel  off  a  lot  of  hot 
air  about  heaven.  You'd  'a'  thought  he'd  just 
come  from  it,  and  you  knew  he  didn't  know  a 
thing  about  it,  but — but  you're  bound  to  know 
there's  one  when  somebody  is  a-waiting,  ain't 
you,  Mr.  Colburn?  I  reckon  them  that  thinks 
there  ain't  one  haven't  got  anybody  waiting. 
What's  that  picture  up  there?"  Cricket's  fin- 
ger pointed  to  "The  Huguenot  Lovers." 
"What's  that  girl  tying  her  handkerchief 
round  that  man's  arm  for?" 

The  picture  was  explained,  and  then  a  little 
longer  talk  was  allowed  of  how  Cricket  had  told 
Mr.  McKenzie  of  his  intention  of  coming  to 
Piping  Forest.  His  confidence  in  his  ability  to 
get  there  somehow,  notwithstanding  he  had  no 
money,  was  as  unwavering  as  Mr.  McKenzie's 
unconcern  as  to  whether  it  would  be  convenient 
for  him  to  be  a  guest  at  the  Doctor's  home  was 
calm  and  cool.  Mr.  McKenzie  wanted  to  see 
Taska.  He  liked  to  talk  to  Colburn,  and, 
239 


THE   HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

moreover,  the  Doctor  seemed  to  be  a  man  of 
sense.  With  Cricket  as  a  bodyguard  they  had 
started  two  days  before. 

Half  an  hour  later,  having  put  out  the  lights, 
Colburn  stopped  for  a  moment  by  the  cot  on 
which  Cricket  was  soundly  sleeping  and  looked 
down  on  it. 

"Faithful  unto  death,"  he  said,  and  of  all  his 
friends  he  knew  not  one  for  whose  coming  there 
would  have  been  a  gladder,  warmer  welcome. 


XXIII 

THE   WHITE    ROSE 

A)  naturally  as  if  their  surroundings  were 
those  to  which  they  had  long  been  accus- 
tomed, Mr.  McKenzie  and  Cricket  fitted  into 
their  new  home  without  request  or  explanation, 
and  at  their  calm  assumption  of  welcome  Taska 
and  Colburn  had  first  been  amused  and  then 
perplexed,  and  a  little  later  understood. 

With  the  Doctor  their  coming  was  accepted  as 
naturally  as  by  the  new  arrivals.  As  long  as 
there  was  a  spot  on  the  place  that  could  be 
utilized  it  must  be  made  ready.  When  com- 
plications occurred  Jane  straightened  them  out, 
and  to  the  matter  he  gave  no  further  thought. 
Colburn,  however,  gave  it  many,  and  on  the 
Sunday  following  his  arrival,  when  Cricket,  for 
whom  a  little  packing-room  had  been  emptied, 
came  to  him,  he  thought  it  best  to  tell  him  he 
would  have  to  go  to  school;  but  the  boy  an- 
ticipated him. 

"I  reckon  you  think  I  got  a  lot  of  nerve,"  he 
241 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

said,  sitting  down  in  a  high-back  chair  and 
twisting  his  feet  around  its  rungs,  "coming  here 
like  this  and  eating  other  folks'  food  and  not 
even  saying  thanky  out  loud.  But  I'm  a-going 
to  work  it  out,  and  that's  what  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about,  if  you  got  time  to  listen." 

"Plenty  of  time.     Peg  away." 

Colburn,  who  had  been  shaving  when  Cricket 
came  in,  went  on  with  his  task.  "I've  been  in- 
tending to  tell  you  that  I  am  ready  to  take  you 
to  school  as  soon  as  you're  ready  to  go.  I 
didn't  want  to  hurry  you." 

Cricket  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  piece  of 
soiled  paper  and  a  stub  of  a  pencil.  "School 
closes  in  June,  don't  it?"  The  figures  on  the 
paper  were  looked  at  uncertainly. 

"Some  schools — yes." 

"Well,'  it's  April  now.  Fourth  of  April. 
Time  I  got  there  'most  half  of  it  would  be 
gone,  and  I'd  be  a  donkey  in  an  airship  trying 
to  find  out  what  I  was  at,  and  before  I  found 
it  I'd  have  to  come  away.  If  you  wouldn't 
mind  my  waiting,  I'd  like  to  stay  on  and  work 
my  board  out  till  it's  time  to  go  next  fall. 
I've  been  looking  round,  and  there's  a  lot  to  do 
'bout  here.  The  man  what  runs  the  farm  says 
labor's  scarce  as  Christian  charity,  and  the  cows 
sometimes  go  dry  'count  of  nobody  to  milk  'em. 
242 


THE    WHITE    ROSE 

I  don't  like  to  milk,  but  I  like  it  better  than 
beating  on  folks,  and  some  days  when  they  don't 
need  me  here  I  can  hire  out  to  somebody  else  and 
make  something  for  some  clothes,  maybe.  I 
don't  need  much  'cepting  shoes,  and  'twill  be 
barefoot  time  'fore  long."  He  stopped  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  "I  can  eat  with 
Mr.  Acker,  he  says.  Breakfast  is  at  sun-up 
and  dinner  at  twelve,  but  if  I  wash  good  and 
save  the  shoes,  do  you  reckon" — he  hesitated, 
and  his  face  flushed — "do  you  reckon  Mis' 
Bagley  'd  mind  if  I  have  supper  with  you  all?" 

"I'm  very  sure  she  wouldn't."  Colburn  put 
his  razor  away  carefully.  "We  will  want  you 
with  us,  and  I  guess  you're  right  about  not 
going  off  this  session  to  school.  They  need  help 
badly  here.  There's  no  system.  Nothing  is 
organized,  and  the  work  on  the  farm  is  a 
scrambled-eggs  affair  that  has  neither  beginning 
nor  end.  The  Doctor  has  no  time  to  give  to 
things  of  that  sort,  and  Acker's  head  is  pretty 
nearly  hollow." 

"He  ain't  had  anything  put  in  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  if  'twas  put  he  wouldn't  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  Mr.  Pepper-pot  told  me  a  man 
told  him  if  you  was  sent  up  into  heaven  or  down 
into  hell  you'd  start  a  company  doing  something 
— angels  if  you  could  get  'em,  and  devils  if  you , 
243 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

couldn't.  Why  don't  you  take  a  hold  on 
things  'bout  here,  Mr.  Colburn?  Farmers  and 
mount 'neers  need  a  leader  same  as  all  other 
folks." 

Colburn,  who  was  having  trouble  buttoning 
his  collar,  laughed.  "I  know  as  much  about 
farming  as  a  monkey  of  music.  Besides,  I  am 
a  guest  here,  and  I  imagine  it  would  be  wiser  to 
keep  out  of  comment  and  criticism."  The  ends 
of  his  cravat  were  pulled  to  proper  length  for 
tying.  "But  you  and  I  are  going  to  start  a 
partnership  right  now.  Being  older,  and  having 
been  longer  on  the  job  called  living,  I'll  be  the 
senior  member  of  the  firm,  but  as  the  junior 
you're  to  do  your  part  and  report  to  me  from 
time  to  time.  I'm  glad  you  want  to  get  to  work. 
There's  a  good  deal  you  can  do.  While  we're 
partners  I'm  to  send  you  to  school,  furnish  you 
clothes  and  a  certain  amount  of  money  each 
month  for  things  you  may  need.  You  can 
choose  your  life-work.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
well  to  decide  on  it  as  soon  as  you  can,  so  that 
the  college  course  may  be  undertaken  with  a 
view  to  it. 

He  was  looking  in  the  glass,  and  his  cravat 
was  tied  carefully. 

"That  will  be  my  part,  that  and  to  stand  by 
when  you  need  me.  And  yours — "  He  leaned 
244 


THE    WHITE    ROSE 

closer  to  the  mirror,  but  his  eyes  refused  to 
see  their  reflection.  "It  is  not  likely  I  shall 
ever  have  a  son,  and  your  part  is  to  play  square 
and  be  the  man — I'd  like  my  son  to  be.  Is  it  a 
bargain,  Cricket?" 

The  boy  got  up,  and  Colburn  turned  toward 
him.  His  hand  was  held  out,  but  Cricket  did 
not  take  it.  Presently  above  his  head  he  held 
up  his  own. 

"So  help  me  God,"  he  said,  huskily,  "some 
day  you'll  say  you  wouldn't  be  ashamed  if — if 
I  was  your  son,"  and,  turning,  he  ran  out  of  the 
room  and  down  the  steps  and  into  the  silence  of 
the  woods. 

In  the  Doctor's  study  that  night  Mr.  McKen- 
zie  puffed  away  on  a  Piping  Forest  pipe  and 
wriggled  nervously  in  the  chair  whose  spring 
was  broken  and  in  which  he  could  not  com- 
fortably adjust  himself;  and  presently  he  took 
from  his  pocket  an  envelope  and  threw  it  toward 
the  Doctor  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"Don't  be  a  fool  just  because  you  think  I'm 
one,"  he  blurted,  "and  for  the  love  of  Heaven 
don't  argue !  I  hate  arguments !  There  was  no 
time  to  write  you  when  I  found  that  little  chap 
was  coming,  but  I'm  not  an  ass,  and  I  know 
we've  made  you  bundle  up  a  bit.  The  only 
17  245 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

thing  I've  got  more  of  than  I  need  is  money,  and 
I've  let  you  think  I've  come  to  sponge  on  you. 
I  haven't.  You  can't  feed  and  warm  and  dose 
and  doctor  that  God  -  forsaken,  broken-down 
bunch  of  humanity  you've  got  scattered  around 
here  without  money,  and  you  haven't  got  it." 
His  hand  went  out  to  prevent  interruption. 
"Dominicker  tells  me  you  haven't  had  a  new 
suit  of  clothes  in  two  years — and,  damn  it  all,  I 
gave  a  thousand  dollars  last  year  to  an  Anthropo- 
logical society !  Why  don't  you  let  people  know 
of  this  menagerie  up  here?" 

On  his  feet  the  little  South-Carolinian  was 
now  standing,  beating  with  his  right  hand  the 
ashes  of  his  pipe  into  the  palm  of  his  left,  but  as 
the  Doctor  took  out  his  spectacles,  put  them  on, 
and  looked  at  the  check  he  had  taken  from  the 
envelope,  his  eyes  squinted  nervously  and  his 
hands  were  put  in  his  pockets  to  hide  their 
twitching. 

Dr.  Grannere  looked  up,  and  into  his  face 
came  color,  but  his  eyes  twinkled  as  he  handed 
back  the  check. 

"Piping  Forest  isn't  Baywood,"  he  said,  "and 
there  are  no  extras.  Nor  are  you  occupying  a 
suite  at  a  New  York  hotel.  If  you  prefer  to  pay 
rather  than  be  our  guest,  which  Jane  and  I 
would  be  happy  to  have  you  be,  then  the  price 
246 


THE    WHITE    ROSE 

is  the  same  as  for  the  others.  This  would  build 
a  new  cottage,  build  and  furnish  it." 

"Then  in  the  name  of  Heaven  build  and 
furnish  it!" 

On  his  breast  the  fingers  of  Mr.  McKenzie 
made  swiftly  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  restlessly 
he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  long  room. 

' '  Look  here,  Grannere,  you  and  I  have  pretty 
nearly  finished  our  journey.  In  the  early  part 
of  it,  when  the  blood  was  hot  and  the  brain  in- 
solent, we  pooh-hoohed  a  lot  of  things  we  were 
taught  as  children,  thought  we'd  made  a  good 
many  discoveries,  thought  we  could  run  the 
universe  with  our  eyes  shut;  but  now  we're  no 
longer  young  some  of  those  old  things  come 
creeping  back.  One  of  them  is  the  Day  of 
Judgment. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean" — his  hand  was  waved — 
"that  I  believe  in  a  line-up  or  a  roll-call  or  an 
open  book  with  a  God  of  Wrath  presiding  over 
it;  but  somehow  I  can't  help  thinking  of 
empty  hands.  I've  been  a  damned  selfish 
whipper-snapper,  and  when  I  go  it  will  be — 
it  will  be  with  empty  hands!  Don't  be  a  pig 
because  yours  are  running  over.  Give  me  a 
chance,  Grannere!  I'm  going  to  stay  here. 
I  like  the  place.  I've  no  gift  for  chumming 
with  poverty-stricken,  bed-ridden  wretches.  I 
247 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

don't  like  to  see  them,  don't  know  how  to  talk 
to  them,  and  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  I  do. 
If  I'm  sent  to  hell  it  won't  be  for  hypocrisy! 
Build  your  cottage,  and  if  it's  not  enough  let 
me  know.  What  did  I  do  with  that  pipe? 
Vile  tobacco!  Whoever  bought  it  ought  to  be 
hung!" 

The  Doctor  got  up.  Taking  out  his  watch,  he 
looked  at  it,  then  laid  the  check  on  the  table. 

"A  new  cottage  is  badly  needed,  Mr.  McKen- 
zie.  I  will  use  your  money  to  build  it,  and  I 
thank  you.  Those  who  come  to  it  will  thank 
you  also.  What  will  you  name  it?  All  of  the 
cottages  are  named  for  flowers.  One  of  the 
patients,  a  young  girl,  gave  the  idea." 

' '  What  idea  ?"  Mr.  McKenzie  turned  sharply. 

"The  old  idea  that  if  on  the  journey  of  which 
you  spoke  just  now  we  could  not  do  great 
or  wonderful  or  splendid  things,  if  we  could 
lessen  but  little  the  loneliness  and  weariness,  the 
sin  and  suffering  of  our  fellow-travelers,  we  still 
might  plant  a  flower  by  the  roadside.  What 
will  you  call  your  cottage,  Mr.  McKenzie?" 

The  latter  hesitated,  and  his  eyes  blinked 
rapidly.  "Call  it  the  White  Rose,"  he  said, 
huskily.  "I  never  see  a  perfect  one  that  I  do 
not  think  of  my  mother.  Call  it  the  White 
Rose." 

248 


XXIV 

CONFESSION 

WATCHING  her  as,  bareheaded,  she 
walked  the  length  of  the  box-bordered 
path  and  across  the  wide  plateau  which  sloped 
abruptly  down  the  mountain-side,  he  bit  his  lip, 
and  then  the  frown  faded  and  he  smiled. 

How  long  did  she  think  she  could  keep  this 
up?  Since  the  night  of  the  telling  of  the 
Doctor's  story  Cricket  had  been  purposely  ap- 
propriated, and  for  hours  they  had  been  out 
together;  but  never  once  had  he  been  asked  to 
join  them  in  their  long  walks  to  school  or  settle- 
ment or  mountain  cabin,  and  in  the  house  she 
managed  with  skill,  consummately  unconscious, 
always  to  have  some  one  near.  Once  or  twice  he 
had  caught,  however,  a  flash  of  seeming  protest, 
a  gleam  of  beseeching  appeal,  a  swift  message  to 
keep  back  what  she  must  not  hear;  but  he  was 
not  going  to  keep  it  back. 

Up  to  this  time  his  word  to  the  Doctor  could 
not  be  broken,  but  his  promise  not  to  tell  her 
249 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

of  his  love  was  meant  to  hold  only  until  he 
could  talk  with  him  again.  For  days  this  had 
been  impossible.  The  arrival  of  Mr.  McKenzie 
and  Cricket,  much  sickness  in  the  mountains, 
and  many  matters  to  be  attended  to  had  com- 
bined to  prevent  a  personal  talk,  and  not  until 
the  night  before  had  he  seen  the  Doctor  alone 
since  the  evening  in  which  he  had  told  of  Diane 
d'Estrees.  The  memory  of  its  telling  haunted 
him  still  and  would  go  with  him  through  life. 

Taking  out  a  cigar,  he  started  to  light  it,  then 
put  it  back  in  his  pocket  and  went  down  the 
steps  and  through  the  gate,  and  followed  the 
path  which  led  in  a  roundabout  way  to  the 
cabin  of  Solomon  Hatch.  Taska  was  going 
there.  He  had  heard  her  tell  Mrs.  Bagley. 
He  would  join  her  and  walk  home  with  her. 
Cricket  was  at  work ;  there  was  small  chance  of 
meeting  any  one  on  the  road,  and  he  would  re- 
fuse to  wait  any  longer.  He  had  told  the 
Doctor  so  last  night. 

Should  Taska  love  him,  the  Doctor  agreed 
no  longer  to  withhold  his  consent  to  their  mar- 
riage when  the  proper  time  for  marriage  came. 
He  admitted  having  made  inquiries  in  his  own 
city  concerning  him,  and  he  believed  he  could 
trust  her  to  him.  He  could  give  no  greater 
proof  of  confidence. 

250 


CONFESSION 

Until  the  night  grew  late  they  had  talked  as 
man  to  man,  as  physician  to  patient,  as  friend 
to  friend,  and  each  to  the  other  had  spoken 
frankly  and  with  no  false  reserve;  and  when 
he  left  he  felt  indeed  that  he  had  been  behind 
the  veil  wherein  are  glimpsed  visions  never 
caught  in  noontide  glare. 

Lifting  his  head,  he  breathed  deeply.  March 
had  done  well  her  beating  and  blowing  and  shak- 
ing and  dusting.  In  the  sun-warmed  air  was 
April's  subtle  stirring  of  new  life,  and  the  faint 
fragrance  of  fresh-turned  fields,  and  coming 
flowers  of  woods  and  hills,  and  springtime 
whisperings  were  wafted  to  him  as  he  walked. 
A  turn  in  the  road  brought  him  into  a  tiny  by- 
path, and  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree  Taska 
was  sitting. 

With  a  quick  upleaping  of  his  heart  he  stood 
still;  then  he  came  nearer,  and  his  hat  was 
thrown  upon  the  moss-covered  ground. 

"Taska!"  His  hands  went  toward  her,  and, 
stooping,  he  took  hers  from  their  tight  clasping 
of  the  tree's  rough  bark.  "Why  do  you  not  want 
me  to  tell  you,  Taska?  Is  my  great  love  so  lit- 
tle worth  the  hearing  that  you  do  not  wish — " 

He  drew  her  to  him,  drew  her  from  the  tree 
against  which  she  shrank.     "You  must  listen, 
Taska,  for  I  must  tell  you." 
251 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

"Don't!  oh,  don't!"  Her  hands  made  effort 
to  free  themselves.  "I  must  not  hear.  I  have 
no  right  to  hear,  and  you  no  right  to  tell !  You 
must  not,  shall  not  tell!" 

With  a  swift  movement  he  held  her  in  his 
arms.  "Your  eyes  have  told  me  what  you  will 
not  tell,  and  you  are  mine!  You  are  going  to 
marry  me,  Taska !  You  are  going — 

Protestingly  she  made  quick  effort  to  draw 
away.  "I  cannot  marry  you,  and  you  have  no 
right — "  Her  breath  came  unevenly,  but  her 
head  was  held  high.  "I  will  not,  cannot  marry 
you!" 

"Yes,  you  will" — his  voice,  too,  was  unsteady 
— ' '  for  I  am  going  to  marry  you.  Listen,  Taska. 
Listen  and  look  at  me.  Can  you  not  trust  me? 
Do  you  think  my  love  is  love  that  does  not  un- 
derstand ?  We  are  going  to  be  well ;  but,  well  or 
ill,  we  are  each  other's.  The  Doctor  gives  his 
consent — " 

"How  does  he  know  that  I — care?"  Her 
face  flamed. 

"He  doesn't  know  yet.  There  is  to  be  no 
nonsense,  Taska.  We  are  not  children.  You 
have  known  long  that  I  have  loved  you. 
Words  are  but  one  way  of  telling.  There  is 
much  of  which  we  must  talk,  but  to-day — we 
need  not  talk  of  other  things  to-day.  For  us 
252 


CONFESSION 

there  must  be  honesty.  Others  may  hesitate 
and  spin  fine  theories.  We  must  know  if  there 
be  love  enough — for  what  love  may  require. 
Forgetting  all  things  else,  do  you  love  me, 
Taska?" 

For  a  moment  the  bird  above  them  ceased  its 
singing  and  the  wind  its  stirring.  Then  she 
raised  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "I  love  you." 

Until  the  sun  sank  they  sat  upon  the  fallen 
tree-trunk  and  made  confession  of  their  long 
withholding,  talked  of  their  first  days  of  meet- 
ing, talked  of  many  other  things,  but  of  mar- 
riage she  would  not  let  him  speak. 

"Not  to-day.  Not  for  many  days,  perhaps," 
she  said,  and  her  eyes  grew  grave.  "Is  it  not 
enough  to-day  that  I  have  told  you — what  I 
had  meant  to  never  tell?  I  wanted  to  keep  it 
back.  Did  you  ever  feel  as  if  you  would  rather 
drift  and  drift  and  drift  than  go  anywhere  on 
earth?" 

"No."  In  his  eyes  was  strong  guarding. 
"I  do  not  like  to  drift.  I  always  want  to  go 
somewhere." 

' '  And  I  love  to  dream  and  drift. ' '  She  sat  up. 
"I  intended  to  tell  you  I  did  not  love  you, 
could  not,  would  not.  I  was  going  to  be  a  very 
.  253 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

proper  person,  very  righteous  and  correct,  and 
instead" — she  sighed,  as  if  for  her  sex — "I  told 
the  truth." 

Colburn  laughed,  and,  lifting  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  kissed  it.  "Had  you  decided  on  the  time 
you  were  going  to  tell  me,  going  to  let  me  tell 
you?" 

"No."  She  shook  her  head.  "That  would 
have  been  no  use.  I  only  wanted  to  keep  it 
back  as  long  as  possible.  There  have  been 
times  when  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to 
order  me  to  marry  you — 

"I  may  do  so  yet."  Again  he  laughed. 
"I  have  often  wanted  to,  but  I  could  say 
nothing  until  I  knew  my  chance  for  the 
future.  When  did  you  find  that  I  loved  you, 
Taska?" 

"Before  I  should.  After  I  knew  your  en- 
gagement was  broken  I  should  not  have  let 
you  come  to  Piping  Forest.  But  I  wanted  you 
to  be  made  well.  I  didn't  want  you  to  love 
me.  I  didn't  want  to  love  you,  but  I  wanted 
very  much  to  see  you.  Was  I  very  wicked — 
Rives?" 

After  a  while  they  started  homeward,  and 
in  the  twilight  watched  the  stars  come  out. 
At  the  gate  they  stopped. 
254 


CONFESSION 

"Don't  tell  the  Doctor-man  yet,"  she  said. 
"I  must  think.  It  is  not  what  another  says. 
It  is  what  one  must  know  for  oneself  is  the 
right  thing  to  do.  And  I  do  not  know.  Don't 
tell  him  yet." 


XXV 

THE   VISIT   HOME 

TWO  weeks  later  in  her  room  Taska  was 
writing  on  the  table  she  had  turned  into  a 
desk.     Glancing  at  the  clock,  she  stopped  and 
started  to  close  the  book,  then  ran  her  eyes 
over  the  pages  just  written. 

"Early  this  morning  he  went  away.  It  has 
been  a  long,  long  day,  and  to-night  I  have 
written  him  my  first  letter  since — he  told  me. 
Florine  left  yesterday.  She  managed  to  stay 
the  week  out,  but  it  was  a  trial.  She  doesn't 
understand  how  I  can  endure  a  place  of  this 
sort.  I  don't  think  she  and  Rives  like  each  other 
very  much.  They  were  so  polite.  She  knows, 
of  course,  and  so  does  the  Doctor-man.  Rives 
has  told  him  and  I  have  told  him,  and  he  has 
been  good — oh,  more  than  good;  but  until  I 
am  perfectly  sure  I  am  perfectly  well  I  will  not 
marry.  I  have  tried  to  see  it  all  in  the  right 
way,  the  big  way,  the  fair  way,  see  it  in  Rives's 
way,  but  all  of  us  have  our  special  stupidities, 
256 


THE    VISIT    HOME 

our  personal  perversities,  as  Pepper-pot  calls 
them,  and  of  all  women  I  would  be  most 
miserable  if  I  were  a  burden,  a  care,  an  inter- 
ference— were  in  the  way.  Alone  I  can  hide  the 
disappointments,  but  to  keep  him  back —  He 
must  go  on,  must  use  his  power  and  ability. 
The  world  needs  men  like  Rives.  He  is  just 
beginning  to  see  and  understand  certain  things 
he  had  not  realized  before,  and  could  we  be 
together — " 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  sudden 
tears  stung  her  eyes  and  hung  on  her  lashes. 
For  a  moment  she  was  frightened.  If  the  mere 
sense  of  his  absence  caused  such  childish  sur- 
render to  loneliness,  how  were  the  years  ahead 
to  be  endured?  He  had  gone  to  his  home  to 
see  about  some  business  matters  which  were 
badly  tangled,  but  in  a  week  he  would  be  back. 
In  the  fall  he  would  go  home  to  stay.  He 
would  be  well;  but  she — would  she  be  well? 

His  will  was  not  easily  surrendered.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  oppose  it.  He  wanted  her 
to  marry  him  in  October,  and  he  had  brought 
her  plans  for  the  house  he  would  build  outside 
the  city  for  her,  plans  he  had  sketched  as  sug- 
gestions for  the  architect,  and  that  meant  air 
and  sunshine,  and  wise  and  beautiful  living. 
But  she  must  not  marry  him  in  the  fall.  Taking 
257 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

up  the  letter  just  written,  she  sealed  and  di- 
rected it,  then,  going  to  the  window,  leaned  out 
a  moment  and  looked  up  at  the  stars.  On  the 
horizon  the  moon  was  rising,  and  fitful  clouds 
played  over  it,  obscuring,  revealing,  and  again 
obscuring;  and,  watching,  she  sent  a  message 
by  it. 

"I  wonder  how  he  is  to-night?"  At  the 
moon  she  looked  perplexedly.  "The  trip  is 
such  a  tiresome  one,  and  he  isn't  as  strong 
as  he  thinks.  I  wonder — " 

Hands  on  the  sill,  she  looked  long  at  the  stars; 
then  she  threw  them  a  kiss. 

"Good  night,  Rives!  If  I  knew  you  were 
quite  comfortable,  had  what  you  needed —  I 
don't  believe  you  took  your  heavy  overcoat, 
and  April  is  so  uncertain!" 

She  drew  in  her  breath  and  left  the  window. 
"I  wonder  if  I  am  going  to  be  always  wondering 
when  he  is  in  one  place  and  I  in  another!  Of 
me  he  is  ever  caring,  but  of  himself — "  She 
put  out  the  light. 

On  the  street,  whose  every  building  was 
familiar,  Colburn  walked  to  his  office  with  the 
quick  stride  of  former  days  and  looked  about 
him  with  eyes  eager  and  alert.  Each  person 
passed  was  glanced  at  with  something  of  hungry 
258 


THE    VISIT   HOME 

hope  that  he  be  a  friend  or  acquaintance,  but 
many  were  strangers,  and  only  occasionally  was 
he  stopped  and  welcomed  back. 

Six  months  had  passed  since  he  had  been 
upon  this  street  where  formerly  he  had  known, 
or  thought  he  had  known,  the  majority  of  the 
men  whose  business  houses  or  offices  were  upon 
it,  men  he  had  been  accustomed  to  meet  and 
greet  in  the  day's  doings;  but  if  his  absence  had 
been  noted  there  was  scant  evidence  of  it.  It 
was  a  little  upsetting  that  a  matter  so  im- 
mensely important  to  oneself  should  be  un- 
important to  others,  and  rather  dismally  it 
was  dawning  on  him  that  by  many  it  was  not 
known,  or  had  been  forgotten,  that  he  had  been 
away. 

"The  clocks  haven't  stopped  running  because 
I  didn't  wind  them  up,"  he  said,  and  nodded  to 
the  man  who  nodded  to  him.  "A  queer  old 
place  this  world!" 

' '  Hello,  Colburn !"  Some  one  slapped  him  on 
the  back,  and  a  hand  was  held  out.  "Glad  to 
see  you,  old  man !  If  you're  as  fit  as  you  look 
you're  in  luck.  When  did  you  get  in?" 

Together  they  walked  down  the  street,  and 

bits  of  business  were  discussed  and  items  of 

gossip  given  between  the  interruptions  caused 

occasionally  by  a  welcoming  acquaintance,  and 

259 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

the  chill  first  felt  passed  in  the  warmth  of 
vigorous  handshakes  and  friendly  salutations. 
At  the  door  of  Ransome  &  Brothers  a  little 
group  of  old  friends  gave  him  hearty  greeting. 

On  the  edge  of  the  group  a  man  held  out  his 
hand.  "I  thought  I  hadn't  seen  you  lately," 
he  said.  "Glad  you're  back.  Been  away  a 
month  or  so,  haven't  you?" 

' '  Been  away  six. "  Colburn  shook  the  offered 
hand  and  joined  in  the  laugh.  "All  together 
it  has  been  ten  months  since  I've  earned  my 
living,  but  six  since  I  was  last  in  town.  Looks 
as  if  you've  been  pulling  down  and  putting  up  a 
good  deal  lately.  That's  something  of  a  scraper 
over  there!  I  hate  the  beastly  things,  but 
suppose  they're  inevitable.  Hello,  Mr.  Ran- 
some !  By  George,  it's  good  to  see  you 
again!" 

Through  that  day,  through  the  next  few  days, 
there  were  seen  and  heard  a  good  many  things 
that  were  not  good  to  hear  and  see,  however, 
and  on  the  fourth  Colburn's  face  was  drawn  and 
worn.  For  hours  his  business  matters  were 
gone  into,  and  each  day  gave  greater  and  more 
amazing  evidences  of  Ralstone's  crafty  rascality. 
At  Mr.  Ransome's  question  as  to  how  a  man  of 
Colburn's  knowledge  of  life  could  have  allowed 
such  opportunities  for  dishonest  manipulations 
260 


THE    VISIT   HOME 

as  he  had  allowed  Ralstone,  Colburn  turned  to 
him. 

' '  I  was  a  fool, ' '  he  said.  ' '  But  I  will  always  be 
that  sort  of  fool.  I  never  mistrust  a  friend." 

It  had  been  cleverly  done.  There  was  little 
upon  which  the  hand  of  the  law  could  be  laid. 
With  his  power  of  attorney  Ralstone  had  sold 
much  of  Colburn's  stock,  many  of  his  bonds, 
and  several  pieces  of  his  property — sold  them 
when  the  market  was  low,  and  bought  them 
again  when  it  was  high.  During  his  absence 
abroad  much  of  this  manipulation  had  been 
done,  through  his  direction,  by  his  chief  clerk, 
who,  under  Colburn's  grilling  inquiries  and 
burning  eyes,  told  a  straight  story,  and  from 
him  much  was  learned  of  those  matters  that 
Ralstone  had  written  him  were  a  bit  mixed. 
Upon  receipt  of  his  answer  demanding  imme- 
diate explanation  Ralstone  had  again  left  town ; 
and,  though  he  had  waited  at  Piping  Forest 
some  time  for  his  return,  he  had  not  yet  got 
back,  he  was  told,  and  at  the  telling  Colburn 
got  up. 

"When  will  he  be  back?" 

"He  may  be  back  to-day.  He  wouldn't  be, 
however,  if  he  knew  you  were  in  town."  The 
clerk  had  also  risen.  "  I've  a  family,  and  I  have 
been  afraid  to  say  anything,  but  I  can't  keep 

18  261 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

on  like  this,"  he  said.  "I  don't  sleep  at  night. 
He  makes  me  do  the  dirty  work,  and  gets  out 
of  it  by  calling  me  a  stupid  fool  before  the 
people  he  has  cheated.  But  you'll  never  catch 
him.  He's  made  me  live  in  hell.  It  was  I 
who  had  to  do  the  bickering  for  the  Colesworth 
house.  A  nasty  piece  of  business !" 

' '  For  the  what  ?"  Colburn  turned  so  sharply 
and  his  voice  was  so  curt  that  the  clerk  started 
nervously. 

"Don't  you  know  who  bought  it?" 

Colburn  shook  his  head.  ' '  I  did  not  know  it 
had  been  sold." 

"Mr.  Ralstone  bought  it.  The  owner  was 
willing  to  sell  at  your  price  until  Ralstone 
offered  him,  for  a  supposed  client,  a  pretty 
big  advance.  Naturally,  when  he  found  he 
could  get  more  he  wanted  more.  You  refused 
to  buy.  In  less  than  a  week  it  was  Mr.  Ral- 
stone's." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Were  he 
here  he'd  make  you  think  he'd  done  you  a 
great  favor,  saved  you  from  an  unprofitable 
investment.  He  can  explain  away  the  deepest- 
dyed  villainies  of  which  a  man  is  capable. 
He's  a  juggler,  a  wizard.  He  does  his  dirty 
work  as  cleverly  as  the  man  on  the  stage  does 
things  with  cards  and  handkerchiefs  and  eggs; 
262 


THE   VISIT   HOME 

and  all  you  can  do  is  to  wonder.  Plausible!" 
He  wiped  his  face.  "I  hope  you  haven't  lost  a 
great  deal,  Mr.  Colburn?" 

Colburn  struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the 
cigar  in  his  mouth.  His  fingers  were  not  en- 
tirely steady,  but  his  eyes  were,  and,  watching 
him,  the  family-burdened  clerk  wondered  what 
would  be  his  next  step.  He  was  not  a  man  to 
take  treachery  calmly.  "I  hope  you  haven't 
lost  much,"  he  repeated. 

"A  little  over  half  of  what  I  had  when  I  went 
away. ' '  Colburn  turned  to  the  clerk  and  flicked 
the  ashes  of  his  cigar  on  the  floor.  "What  is 
behind  this?"  he  asked.  "What  was  Mr.  Ral- 
stone's  motive?" 

"Several  things,  I  imagine.  You've  made 
more  money,  and  he  hates  your  good  name. 
You  know  he  is  to  be  married?" 

"Married!"  Colburn's  voice  was  loathingly 
incredulous.  "To  whom?" 

"To  Miss  McLean.     Miss  Isabel  McLean." 

Colburn  stared.  Turning  to  the  door,  he 
faced  Ralston  who  was  entering  it. 


XXVI 

BACK   AGAIN 

INSTINCTIVELY  a  step  was  made  back- 
1  ward;  but  quickly  Ralstone  recovered  him- 
self, and  gaily  his  hand  was  held  out. 

"Hello,  Colburn!  It's  bully  well  you're 
looking.  I'm  glad  to  see  you!  When'd  you 
get  down?" 

Colburn  looked  at  the  offered  hand,  but  his 
own  made  no  movement.  On  the  flushed  and 
handsome  face  before  him  his  eyes  fastened; 
then  he  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  have  only  a  few  minutes,"  he  said,  "but 
when  I  want  a  man  to  know  the  kind  of  scoun- 
drel I  think  he  is  I  prefer  to  tell  him  to  his  face 
even  when  other  things  have  to  wait." 

"Take  care!"  Ralstone's  arm  curved  as  if 
to  protect  himself  from  a  blow,  and  his  face 
flamed.  ' '  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
You—" 

"I  know  very  well  what  I  am  saying,  and  I 
have  much  more  to  say.  What  I  don't  say  my 
264 


BACK   AGAIN 

lawyers  will.  With  creatures  of  your  class  it  is 
difficult  for  decent  men  to  deal.  Where  is  your 
private  office?  There?  Well,  go  in  it." 

For  an  hour,  in  terms  for  which  there  was  no 
regard  for  nicety  of  expression,  Colburn  whipped 
and  lashed  the  at  first  pretendingly  amazed 
and  then  cowering  man  whose  mask  was  off; 
and  later,  with  a  movement  of  his  hands  which 
struggled  with  elemental  impulse  to  kick  with 
the  foot,  Colburn  got  up. 

"For  the  rest,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Eldridge  will 
see  you.  In  a  few  days  he  will  bring  suit,  and 
naturally  the  papers — " 

"For  the  love  of  God,  don't!"  The  cry  was 
one  of  terror.  "I  am  going  to  be  married.  It 
will  ruin  me  if  the  papers — " 

"Expose  you?"  Colburn's  hands  dug  in  his 
pockets.  "Then  the  lady  you  expect  to  marry 
will  owe  the  papers  a  debt  of  gratitude  she  can 
never  repay.  Quit  that ! ' ' 

At  the  door  he  turned.  There  was  but  one 
spot  in  Ralstone's  soul  and  body  that  quickened 
at  a  touch.  Publicity  was  his  one  fear,  one 
weakness,  one  dread  and  torment.  "After 
lunch  Eldridge  will  see  you,"  he  said.  "If 
there  is  public  discussion  of  a  private  matter 
you  alone  will  be  responsible,"  and  without  a 
glance  behind  him  he  was  gone. 
265 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

On  the  train  a  few  days  later  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out 
all  remembrance  of  recent  experiences,  but  the 
fingers  between  the  leaves  of  his  magazine 
gripped  its  pages  with  nervous  intensity.  Each 
turn  of  the  wheel  was  good  to  hear,  each  took 
him  a  bit  nearer  what  seemed  heaven  indeed 
after  the  dark  and  ugly  revealings  of  the  days 
just  gone,  and  his  heart  kept  rhythmic  measure 
to  its  sound. 

They  had  not  been  all  dark  and  ugly,  these 
days  that  were  past,  however.  His  friends  had 
been  warm  in  welcome,  and  it  had  been  as  the 
drinking  of  a  life-giving  draught  to  be  again  at 
his  desk,  to  feel  once  more  in  his  hands  the  man- 
agement of  matters  that  needed  him,  and  to  be 
asked  .concerning  measures  that  required  judg- 
ment and  skill  in  execution.  In  the  fall  he 
would  again  be  actively  at  work,  and  he  must 
work  if  Taska  was  to  have  that  which  he 
would  not  be  content  for  her  to  be  without. 

With  the  passing  of  hours,  the  first  uninter- 
rupted ones  in  which  he  could  face  frankly  the 
situation  in  which  he  found  himself,  reaction 
set  in,  however,  and  as  darkness  fell  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  loss  of  the  larger  part  of  his  property 
came  upon  him  with  acute  meaning.  The 
amazement  and  unbelief  caused  by  the  revela- 
266 


BACK   AGAIN 

tion  of  Ralstone's  character  had  been  followed 
by  a  fury  of  scorn  and  contempt  for  the  man  and 
his  methods,  and  the  loss  of  his  money  was  at 
first  overshadowed  by  the  shock  of  his  treachery. 
Had  he  in  a  moment  of  temptation,  of  impending 
personal  ruin,  stolen  his  money,  he  could  have 
forgiven  him.  There  were  many  forms  of  sin 
he  could  forgive,  but  hypocrisy  was  not  one  of 
them.  A  monk  was  never  so  hated  by  the 
devil  as  he  hated  a  hypocrite,  .and  to  be  used  as 
Ralstone  had  used  him  made  restraint  difficult. 
Did  he  suppose  his  smooth  words  and  plausible 
explanations  would  be  accepted  by  a  man  of  his 
type?  With  others  such  methods  might  work, 
but  not  with  him. 

Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  with  eyes  that  saw  not  watched 
the  swiftly  passing  fields  and  hills  and  occasional 
farm-houses,  which  in  the  soft  shadows  of  the 
dying  day  were  growing  vague  and  misty,  and 
presently  his  eyes  again  closed. 

Before  his  marriage,  some  years  ago,  Ralstone 
had  been  engaged  to  Isabel  McLean.  Colburn 
had  heard  of  it,  but  only  as  club  or  tea-cup  gos- 
sip, and  had  paid  no  attention  to  it.  For  some 
reason  the  engagement  had  been  broken.  He 
had  not  seen  Isabel.  It  was  cruel  and  cowardly 
to  let  her  marry  a  man  thinking  he  was  one 
267 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

thing  when  he  was  most  verily  another,  but 
under  the  circumstances  he  could  do  nothing. 
And  above  all  things  she  wanted  the  Coles- 
worth  house. 

For  some  while  longer  the  car  rushed  on, 
and  through  each  passing  minute  plans  and 
purposes  for  work  to  be  done  filled  and  absorbed 
him.  There  must  be  money  to  give  to  Taska,  do 
for  her  what  was  necessary.  It  was  doubtful  if 
she  would  ever  be  strong,  and  care  that  was 
infinite  and  unfailing  must  be  her  portion.  To 
give  it  would  be  all  he'd  ask  of  life.  As  much 
as  he  wanted  to  be  with  her  he  would  return 
to-morrow  gladly  if  returning  meant  the  taking 
up  of  his  work,  the  rebuilding  of  what  had 
been  torn  down.  He  would  never  be  content 
with  a  subordinate  position  in  his  city,  and 
until  he  had  recovered  what  was  lost  he  would 
be  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  He  turned  his  head. 
The  brakeman  was  calling  out  his  station. 

As  he  started  to  leave  his  seat,  believing  him- 

45/" 

self  the  only  passenger  to  get  out,  he  noticed 
a  woman  who  had  been  sitting,  quite  hidden 
by  the  back  of  her  chair,  in  the  opposite  corner 
of  the  car,  get  up,  noticed  also  that  her  bags 
were  in  the  porter's  hands.  Although  closely 
veiled,  about  her  was  something  familiar;  and 
as  she  reached  the  platform  and  lifted  her  veil, 
268 


BACK   AGAIN 

in  the  fitful  glare  of  a  lantern  swung  by  a 
station  hand,  he  recognized  her. 

As  she  saw  him  she  gave  a  little  cry  and  drew 
back;  then  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Colburn,  take  me  to  her!  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  or  where  to  go.  Take  me — 

She  swayed  slightly,  and  Colburn  caught  and 
steadied  her.  He  had  never  liked  her.  It  was 
difficult  to  be  patient  with  her  sort  of  weakness, 
but  his  voice  was  gentle. 

"Where  shall  I  take  you,  Mrs.  Woods?" 

"To  her — wherever  she  is.  Where  is  it — the 
Piping  Forest  place  at  which  she  is  staying? 
She  must  hold  on  to  me,  keep  me  from —  Take 
me  to  her,  Mr.  Colburn!" 

"To  Miss  Laird?  Is  it  to  Miss  Laird  you 
wish  to  go?" 

She  nodded,  and,  beckoning  to  Dominicker, 
who  had  come  to  meet  him  in  the  big  old-fash- 
ioned buggy,  Colburn  led  her  to  it,  and  put 
her  in. 

•  "The  bags  can  wait,  Dominicker.  We  must 
get  this  lady  to  Piping  Forest."  He  turned  to 
Mrs.  Woods.  "We  will  be  a  bit  crowded,  but 
the  roads  are  fair  at  this  season  and  the  drive 
will  not  be  very  long.  I  will  take  you  to  her." 

The  drive  had  never  seemed  so  long.     Dur- 
ing it  but  few  words  were  spoken,  for  Colburn, 
269 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

noticing  how  Mrs.  Woods  shrank  at  even  a 
question  concerning  her  comfort,  soon  ceased 
to  make  inquiry,  and  for  most  of  the  time  only 
the  sound  of  old  Dexter's  hoof -beats  and  the 
rattle  of  the  buggy  wheels  broke  the  soft  silence 
of  the  moonlight  night. 

It  was  after  ten  when  the  house  was  reached. 
As  they  drove  up  the  door  of  the  Doctor's  office 
opened,  and  out  of  it  sprang  Cricket  and  ran 
toward  them  with  a  whoop  and  cheer.  On  the 
steps  stood  Mr.  McKenzie  and  the  Doctor,  and 
in  the  doorway,  with  the  light  of  lamp  and  fire 
behind  her,  was  Taska,  and  at  sight  of  her 
Colburn's  heart  gave  a  great  leap. 

"To  the  front  door,  Dominicker,"  he  said, 
and,  leaning  forward,  caught  Cricket's  hand. 
It  was  good  to  be  home  again,  good  to  feel  the 
warmth  of  waving  welcome,  good — 

"Tell  Miss  Laird  to  come  to  the  big  door, 
Cricket.  I  have  a  friend  of  hers  here."  He 
turned  to  Mrs.  Woods,  who  at  sight  of  Taska 
had  uttered  a  sobbing  cry.  "In  a  moment — 
Take  care,  Dominicker — she's  fainted!"  And 
with  a  quick  movement  he  caught  her  as  she 
fell. 


XXVII 

VICTORY 

NOT  until  the  next  night  did  Taska  un- 
derstand why  Mrs.  Woods  had  come. 
Through  the  first  one  and  the  day  that  fol- 
lowed she  was  too  ill  to  talk,  but  on  the  second 
she  laid  her  hand  on  Taska's. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  she  said.  "Make  her  go 
out,"  and  she  nodded  at  the  nurse. 

For  a  moment  Taska  hesitated.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  more  unwise  to  restrain  her  than  to  let 
her  unburden  what  was  so  greatly  troubling, 
and  after  a  few  words  to  Miss  Neilson  she  came 
to  the  cot  which  had  been  placed  in  her  room. 

"For  just  a  little  while,"  she  said,  and,  sitting 
down  in  a  low  chair,  took  Mrs.  Woods's  hands 
in  hers,  "and  then  you  must  go  to  sleep.  To- 
morrow you  can  talk  longer." 

"I  can't  sleep — and  I  must  talk."  Half  ris- 
ing on  her  elbow,  Mrs.  Woods  looked  at  the  girl 
before  her.  "I  started  away  with  him,  Taska. 
I  tried  not  to.  I  told  him  after  I  got  a  divorce 
271 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

I  would  marry  him,  but  he  doesn't  believe  in 
divorce.  He  doesn't  believe  in  law  of  any 
kind — that  is,  any  kind  that  interferes  with 
personal  liberty.  If  a  man  and  woman  love 
each  other  that  is  enough,  he  thinks.  You 
can't  argue  with  him.  He  is  too  clever;  he 
sweeps  you  aside,  laughs  at  the  littleness  of  your 
views  and  ideas,  which  he  says  aren't  ideas, 
but  opinions  of  small-minded  people.  For  the 
children's  sake,  for  Howard's  sake,  I  tried  to 
hold  out.  When  with  him  I  seem  to  have  no 
will  of  my  own,  but  when  away  I  know  it 
would  be — as  you  said.  He  tires  of  everybody. 
Last  week  he  told  me  he  would  soon  leave  Bay- 
wood.  It  was  doing  him  no  good,  and  he 
was  going  West.  I  must  go  with  him,  he  said. 
There  we  could  live  our  own  lives,  be  our  real 
selves,  and  forget  the  stupid  conventions  by 
which  people  are  made  hypocrites.  I  tried — I 
did  try,  Taska!" 

The  latter  bent  over  the  bed.  "I  know  you 
did,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  very  gentle. 
"It  was  very  hard." 

The  pretty,  dark-brown  eyes  stared  as  if  they 
had  not  heard  aright,  and  suddenly  the  quiver- 
ing face  was  buried  in  the  pillows  and  for  a 
moment  was  low  sobbing. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  I  was 
272 


VICTORY 

wicked  and  beyond  pardon.  I  wanted  to  be 
with  him.  I  started.  We  got  as  far  as  New 
York,  and  there  in  the  hotel,  while  I  was  waiting 
for  him  to  come  for  me  to  take  the  Western 
train,  I  seemed  to  see  you,  to  see  what  it  was 
going  to  mean — to  see  my  children — and  I  ran 
away.  For  hours  I  rode  in  a  cab  trying  to 
know  what  to  do.  If  I  saw  him  again  I  would 
yield  again.  I  couldn't  think.  I  couldn't  go 
back  to  Baywood  or  to  my  home.  There  was 
nowhere  for  me  to  go.  I  wanted  you  to  hold 
on  to  me,  and  suddenly  I  remembered  where 
you  were.  I  caught  the  night  train  and  made 
connection  with  the  one  that  brought  me  here. 
I  have  been  wicked — as  wicked  as  if  I  had 
sinned — because  I  wanted  to  go  with  him;  but, 
oh,  Taska,  do  not  give  me  up !  Do  not  give  me 
up!" 

On  her  knees  Taska  slipped  her  arms  around 
the  suffering  woman  and  held  her  close. 

"Give  you  up?"  she  said.  "Why  should  I 
give  you  up?  What  is  one  woman  that  she 
should  give  another  up?" 

Low  sobbing  alone  broke  the  room's  stillness, 
but  presently  Mrs.  Woods  again  spoke,  slowly, 
wearily. 

"But  they  do.  In  a  man  they  forgive  any- 
thing. In  a  woman  nothing.  Women  are  so 
273 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

hard,  Taska.  They  never  seem  to  understand. 
And  you — you  cannot  understand.  You  are 
good." 

"  Am  I  ?"  Taska  shook  her  head.  ' '  How  do 
I  know?  How  does  any  woman  know?  I 
haven't  had  your  struggle,  your  temptation,  nor 
perhaps  have  the  women  who  would  judge  you. 
I  do  not  judge  you.  But  now  you've  won  you 
can  see  how  sorrowful  and  useless  it  would 
have  been,  and  you're  going  to  wipe  it  all  out 
and  begin  again." 

"Begin  again!  How  can  a  woman  begin 
again  ?"  Mrs.  Woods's  lips  quivered.  ' '  I  should 
live  in  fear  of  being  found  out,  of  Howard's 
knowing — of— 

"No,  you  wouldn't,  for  you're  going  to  tell 
him.  You  can't  live  honestly  with  a  person 
when  there  is  something  you're  afraid  of  being 
found  out  following  like  a  specter  behind  you. 
You've  been  overboard,  but  you're  not  drowned, 
and  there's  a  great  deal  of  difference." 

"Tell  him!"  Mrs.  Woods  sat  up  in  bed  and 
pushed  the  soft  brown  hair  from  her  eyes.  In 
them  was  terror.  "Tell  him?  I  shouldn't 
dare!  He'd  hate  me,  send  me  away.  He'd — " 

"Has  his  life  been  so  free  of  sin  that  he  can 
cast  a  stone  at  you?  Listen!"  Taska  took  the 
twitching,  trembling  hands  in  hers.  "It  is 
274 


VICTORY 

harder  to  forgive  a  woman  than  a  man.  Some- 
thing in  us  shr  nks  differently  at  a  woman  going 
wrong,  but  the  sin  is  the  same;  and  you,  too, 
have  something  to  forgive,  perhaps.  You  must 
tell  him  everything.  I  will  write  him  you  are 
here,  if  you  wish,  and  when  he  comes  I  will  tell 
him  that  you — that  you  won  out.  Shall  I 
write  him  to  come  for  you? — to  come  and  take 
you  home?" 

In  the  pillow  the  tear-stained  face  was  buried, 
and  for  some  moments  there  was  stillness,  then 
the  frail  fingers  on  the  bed  slipped  into  Taska's. 

''Tell  him  —  I  must  see  the  children  —  tell 
him—" 

At  the  door  Miss  Neilson  stood  waiting,  and, 
seeing  her,  Taska  got  up. 

"I  think  your  patient  will  sleep  well  to- 
night," she  said,  and,  stooping,  she  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  the  pretty  brown  hair.  "The  morn- 
ing is  going  to  be  warm  and  lovely,  Mrs.  Woods. 
If  the  Doctor  will  let  us  we'll  drive  to  Peaceful 
Valley.  It's  only  a  short  distance  away,  and 
just  before  we  reach  it  is  the  most  wondexiul 
view.  One  can  see  things  clearly  from  there 
that  are  misty  everywhere  else.  Good  night." 
And  with  a  nod  Miss  Neilson  understood  she 
left  the  room  and  went  down-stairs  to  Colburn, 
who  was  waiting. 

275 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

For  a  long  moment  her  hands  were  held  in 
his.  "You  give  yourself  freely  to  all  others," 
he  said,  "but  I  have  to  wait  for  the  odd  mo- 
ments that  are  no  one  else's.  I've  scarcely  seen 
you  since  I  got  back." 

"At  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  you've 
seen  me,  and  after  supper,  and  yesterday  we 
had  a  little  walk.  She's  been  so  sick  I  couldn't 
leave  her.  Please  don't  scold.  I'm— 

"I  know  you  are."  Her  face  was  scanned 
perplexedly.  "The  Doctor  should  not  have  let 
you  stay  with  her  so  long.  The  cave-men  had 
advantages  over  us.  There  are  times  when  a 
woman  ought  to  be  owned  outright.  If  you 
were  mine  I'd — " 

She  looked  up.  "I  am  yours."  Her  breath 
caught  in  her  throat.  "I  think  I'm  rather 
to  pieces  to-night.  I'm  frightened.  So  many 
strange  things  can  happen,  do  happen.  So 
many  lives  go  wrong."  She  shivered  slightly. 
"It  is  warmer  outdoors  than  in  here.  Let's  go 
out  awhile.  I  need  the  stars  and  the  stillness 
— and  you!" 

In  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  deep  pillared 
porch  they  talked  of  many  things.  Of  past  days 
and  those  immediately  ahead  Taska  spoke 
freely,  but  of  the  future,  of  marriage,  she  would 
not  let  him  speak. 

276 


VICTORY 

"Is  it  not  enough  to  know — what  we  do 
know?"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause  in  which 
they  watched  the  clouds  cover  and  veil  and 
hide  the  moon  which  shone  serenely  down  upon 
the  tree-filled  lawn.  "Is  it  not  enough?  Tell 
me" — she  leaned  forward — "of  everything  that 
happened  while  you  were  away.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  missed  me  as  I  missed  you!" 

Much  he  told  her,  but  some  things  he  left 
untold.  He  had  lost  money  during  his  absence 
from  business,  but  in  the  fall  he  would  be  again 
at  work,  and  in  time  the  loss  would  doubtless 
be  made  up ;  and  then  he  took  from  his  pocket  a 
ring. 

"Before  I  went  away  you  would  make  no 
promise,  but  you  will  wear  this  for  me?"  The 
circle  of  perfect  pearls  was  put  on  her  finger. 
"There  are  doubtless  times  when  diamonds  suit 
you,  but  it  is  always  with  pearls  I  think  of  you — 
always  of  pearls — " 

With  a  little  cry  she  held  out  her  hand,  held 
it  far  off  that  the  moonlight  might  play  upon 
the  ring  and  catch  the  warmth  and  color  of  its 
stones.  "Of  all  jewels  pearls  alone  I  love!"  she 
said,  and  her  breath  was  drawn  in.  ' '  They  have 
always  been  a  passion.  As  a  child  I  was  bar- 
baric, and  in  my  dreams  I'd  wind  them  in 
my  hair  and  around  my  throat,  and  they 
19  277 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

were  always  to  be — the  ring.  How  did  you 
know?" 

"How  did  I  know?"  He  drew  her  to  him. 
"I  cannot  tell — unless  Love  told  me.  You  will 
wear  it?  Will—" 

She  drew  away,  and  her  face  shadowed.  ' '  For 
this  summer  we  were  to  make  no  promise.  We 
were  to  wait  and  let  time  show  us  what  was  wise 
and  right . ' '  Slowly  the  ring  was  drawn  from  her 
finger.  "I  cannot  wear  it  yet.  In  the  fall  we 
will  know,  and  in  the  spring  be  sure." 

"In  the  spring!  Do  you  think  I  am  going 
to  wait  a  year — think  I  am  going  to  be  in  one 
place  and  you  in  another?  I'll  do  nothing  of 
the  sort!" 

' '  Dear  cave-man — yes,  you  will ! ' '  Taska  got 
up.  "We  are  not  children;  we  do  not  make 
denial  of  our  love,  but  until  I  know  I  will  not 
be  a  care,  a  continual  anxiety,  I  cannot  marry. 
Don't  make  it  harder  for  me — " 

"And  I—"  He  too  was  standing.  "If  I 
should  be  a  care,  a  continual  anxiety?" 

"You?"  Her  voice  was  incredulous.  "You 
couldn't  be !  Were  you  sick,  did  you  need  me, 
it  would  be  different.  In  a  few  months,  if  you 
are  careful,  you  will  be  well  again.  But  I — 
of  myself  I  am  not  sure." 

Footsteps  on  the  graveled  walk  made  them 
278 


VICTORY 

turn.  The  Doctor  was  coming  toward  them. 
As  he  reached  the  porch  he  stopped  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  and  Taska  went  down  to  meet 
him. 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  gone  out  to-night," 
she  said.  "Is  anybody  ill?" 

"Not  very.  Jim  Hatch  came  home  to-day." 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead. 
"The  county  never  had  a  tougher  boy  in  it 
than  Jim,  but  the  calf  has  been  killed  and  the 
rejoicing  was  a  little  too  much  for  his  mother. 
Women  are  a  queer  compound,  aren't  they, 
Mr.  Colburn?  It  is  too  cool  for  you  out  here, 
child.  You  had  better  go  inside." 

At  the  door  she  stopped.  "I  must  go  up," 
she  said.  "I  want  to  answer  Mr.  Holman's 
letter.  I  think  he  will  be  glad  to  know  Mrs. 
Woods  is  with  us.  Jack  Harnish,  too,  must 
know — and  that  means  Bay  wood." 


XXVIII 

CONSPIRATORS 

OPRING  had  gone.  Gone  also  was  the 
vj  summer,  and  the  early  September  nights 
on  the  mountain-top  were  cool  and  clear.  As 
twilight  fell  the  locusts  had  piped  shrilly  of  heat 
to-morrow,  and  lazily  the  birds  had  chirped 
good  night,  and  softly  the  faint  tinkle  of  cow- 
bells had  lingered  in  the  air;  but  now  all  was 
still  again,  and  on  the  lawn,  flooded  with  moon- 
light, under  a  great  oak  tree  the  Doctor  and 
Mr.  McKenzie  were  sitting. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,  she's  going  the  way  of 
most  women — the  cantankerous  way!"  Mr. 
McKenzie  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  throwing  away 
the  half  -  smoked  one  he  had  been  holding. 
"She  won't  engage  herself  to  him  because  she 
thinks  he  should  be  free  until  she  is  abso- 
lutely well  again.  He  don't  want  to  be  free! 
And  she's  well  now.  You've  told  me  so,  told 
her  so.  Got  to  be  careful  and  all  that,  but — 
Well,  she's  a  woman,  and  that  means  no  use 
280 


CONSPIRATORS 

trying  to  understand  her!  God  Almighty 
doubtless  made  women  for  more  than  one  rea- 
son, but  the  chief  one  at  times  seems  to  be  the 
tormenting  of  men.  There  are  occasions,  suh, 
when,  if  they  weren't  women,  they  ought  to  be 
shook!  I  tell  you  when  a  man's  the  sort  Rives 
Colburn  is — oh,  I'm  not  saying  he's  all  a  man 
might  be —  Who  is?  But  when  a  man  of  his 
kind  loves  a  woman,  a  man  you  can  trust— 

' '  Do  you  think  his  love  for  her  is  greater  than 
all  things  else  on  earth?  Greater  than  the  ful- 
filment of  all  other  desires?  Great  enough  for 
sacrifice?" 

"Sacrifice!"     Mr.   McKenzie  gave  the  silk 
cap  on  his  bald  head  a  jerk  that  left  it  side- 
ways.    "What's  sacrifice  got  to  do  with  it? 
Where's  the  need  of  it?     I  love  the  child  too 
much  to  trust  her  life  to  a  man  unless  I  know 
the  stuff  he's  made  of,  and  I  tell  you  she'll  be 
safe  with  him.     When  is  he  coming  back?" 
i    "To-morrow." 
•    "AndTaska?" 

"Next  week.  It  will  be  good  to  have  her 
back;  good  to  have  both  back.  He  has  been 
working  too  steadily,  I  am  afraid.  The  two 
weeks  he  asked  for  seemed  reasonable.  There 
were  some  important  business  matters  to  be 
settled.  He  has  been  offered  recently  the 
281 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

presidency  of  a  big  banking  and  trust  company, 
something  bigger  than  he  had  hoped  to  get  for 
years,  perhaps.  I  admire  his  confidence  be- 
cause it  is  based  on  preparedness  and  ability, 
but  I  wonder  at  times  if  business  ambitions  will 
not  unduly  dominate,  absorb,  overpower  as  the 
years  go  by.  Perhaps  I  am  too  exacting." 
The  Doctor's  hand  brushed  back  his  soft  white 
hair,  and  his  eyes  grew  wistful.  "It  is  the 
thing  we  are  apt  to  forget  to-day — that  mar- 
riage is  no  fair-weather  matter,  and  the  love 
that  lasts,  no  matter  what  betide,  alone  justi- 
fies it.  I  wonder  if  he  would  be  willing  to  give 
up  the  position  just  offered  him  if  it  should  be 
necessary  for  Taska  to  go  West?" 

"Taska — go  West!"  Mr.  McKenzie  turned 
in  his  chair  so  bouncingly  that  his  cigar  fell 
from  his  lips.  "I  don't  understand  you,  suh! 
What's  West  got  to  do  with  Taska?  Is — is 
anything  the  matter?" 

Dr.  Grannere  moved  his  chair  closer  to  the 
one  beside  him  and  put  his  hand  on  the  arm 
of  his  friend. 

"You  must  help  me,  McKenzie.  I  want 
your  advice.  I  want — ' 

Closer  the  two  heads  came  together,  and  the 
sharp  little  eyes  of  Mr.  McKenzie  blinked  rap- 
idly into  those  of  the  Doctor,  in  which  were 
282 


CONSPIRATORS 

the  glow  of  a  vision,  the  gleam  of  adventure,  the 
light  that  dares  for  a  high  stake;  and  for  a  half 
moment  neither  spoke. 

"They  are  dear  to  us,  McKenzie.  We  have 
long  loved  Taska,  and  that  we  have  become 
willing  for  her  to  marry  Mr.  Colburn  is  the  best 
evidence  we  could  give  of  our  belief  in  him,  our 
affection  for  him.  But  we  must  be  sure  their 
love  is  of  the  noble  sort." 

"How  are  we  going  to  be  sure?"  The  words 
came  snappily,  and  Mr.  McKenzie  gave  his 
chair  a  jerk  closer  that  he  might  hear  better. 
"Time  alone  is  the  test.  Nothing  human  can 
tell.  We're  too  old  to  butt  in  on  things  of  this 
kind.  We'd  better  stay  out  of  it,  you  and  I. 
Taska  has  said  little  to  me.  Colburn  has  said 
little,  but  I  can  see  a  good  deal  more  than  they 
tell.  For  some  foolish  quixotic  reason  Taska 
refuses  to  marry.  She  ought  to  be  made  to 
marry!" 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head.  "No.  She 
can't  be  made  to  marry.  But  it  is  not  of  Taska 
I  am  thinking.  I  know  the  child's  heart,  know 
what  she  would  do  were  it  not  for  an  abnormal 
fear  of  a  possible  return  of  ill  health  in  the 
future  —  ill  health  that  might  interfere  with 
Colburn's  career  and  cause  him  suffering,  cause 
that  for  which  there  might  be  penalty  beyond 
283 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

pardon.  She  needs  no  test.  Did  she  think 
he  had  to  go  away  and  fight  this  thing  over 
with  strangers,  live  alone  in  anxiety  and  pos- 
sible pain,  she  would  put  all  things  else  aside 
and  go  with  him.  But  if  she  had  to  go — would 
he  go  with  her?" 

To  his  feet  Mr.  McKenzie  jumped,  and  his 
long,  lean  fingers  gripped  the  Doctor's  shoulders 
and  the  round  silk  cap  fell  off  his  head.  ' '  Speak 
English,  man!  Speak  English!  You've  got 
something  in  your  mind!"  The  high,  thin 
voice  cracked  and  broke.  "If  it  is  a  good 
thing,  I  am  with  you,  but  I  must  under- 
stand!" 

With  his  firm  hands  the  Doctor  pushed  Mr. 
McKenzie  back  in  his  chair.  "I  am  going  to 
tell  you,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  if 
I  am  just  a  dreamer,  just  a  believer  in  things 
men  say  are  not  so  great  to-day  as  in  the 
yesterdays,  or  if  I  shall  take  the  risk  ?  We  have 
been  young  and  now  are  old,  McKenzie.  We 
have  seen  much  of  life,  had  many  of  its  good 
things,  but  its  best  things  we  have  never  known. 
Home  in  its  highest  sense — wife,  children — it  is 
these  which  give  meaning  and  purpose  to  life; 
but  marriage  to-day — I  am  afraid  of  it.  I  am 
old  and  cowardly,  perhaps,  but  as  a  garment  is 
put  on  and  off,  so  the  bonds  are  made  ancl 
284 


CONSPIRATORS 

broken;  and  something  seems  very  wrong. 
Always  I  am  wondering  what  it  is — " 

"I'm  not."  Mr.  McKenzie  sat  upright. 
"Clear  as  sunlight.  People  marry  to-day  like 
they  married  yesterday  and  are  going  to  marry 
to-morrow,  because  they  think  they  think  some- 
thing which  isn't  so.  I'm  not  surprised  at  the 
unhappy  marriages,  only  surprised  there  are 
not  more  of  them.  Men  and  women  are  human 
beings,  and  at  times  they  forget  it.  Selfishness, 
pig  -  headedness,  boredom  —  boredom  deserves 
sympathy,  suh — vanity,  pride,  stupidity,  bad 
temper,  the  love  of  money,  ambition,  bad 
health,  selfishness — first  and  last  and  all  the 
time  it  is  selfishness.  All  of  these  things 
mean — " 

' '  Lack  of  love.  By  different  names  we  mean 
the  same  thing,  I  imagine.  In  this  case  are  we 
sure  of  the  love?" 

"And  didn't  I  ask  you  how  we  were  going  to 
be  sure  of  it?"  Mr.  McKenzie's  voice  was  petu- 
lantly impatient.  "Each  day  brings  its  own 
test,  its  own  trial.  I've  known  people  to  live 
together  forty  years  and  then  separate.  A  man 
is  one  thing  to-day,  another  to-morrow,  and  a 
woman's  another  thing  every  day  in  the  week! 
This  case,  like  the  rest,  must  prove  itself.  But 
what's  your  plan?  You've  got  one.  For  the 
285 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

love  of  Heaven,  talk,  man.  I  never  could  en- 
dure waiting!" 

The  Doctor  smiled.  "I  am  thinking  of  send- 
ing Taska  to  Arizona.  For  a  year,  presumably. 
I  am  thinking  of  telling  Mr.  Colburn  it  is 
essential  that  she  go,  but  she  must  not  know  it  is 
essential.  If  he  wishes  to  marry  her  and  go 
with  her  he  must  make  her  think,  I  must  make 
her  think,  it  is  he  that  needs  to  go.  For  her 
health  it  is  not  essential,  but  for  her  happiness 
it  may  be.  I  shall  not  alarm  him.  And  I  am 
thinking  of  telling  Taska  it  is  advisable  for  Mr. 
Colburn  to  go  to  Arizona  for  an  indefinite  stay. 
She  is  not  to  let  him  know  it  is  indefinite,  how- 
ever. He  must  not  be  discouraged.  Naturally, 
he  will  not  ask  her  to  share  the  loneliness  of  the 
place  to  which  he  must  be  exiled.  Each  must 
think  the  other's  condition  necessitates  the 
change  of  climate  to  complete  their  cure. 
With  Colburn  it  will  mean  the  loss  of  a  big 
business  opportunity.  Or  rather  he  will  think 
it  does.  With  Taska  it  will  clear  the  way  to 
do  what  her  heart  bids  and  her  fear  prevents. 
As  a  wedding  gift  a  letter  will  await  them  in 
Arizona  telling  them  what  I  have  done — and 
why.  Am  I  a  quixotic  old  fool,  McKenzie? 
Have  I  the  right?" 

On  his  feet  Pepper-pot  again  was  standing, 
286 


CONSPIRATORS 

hands  in  his  pockets,  heels  digging  little  holes 
in  the  grass,  and  eyes  staring  in  the  face  of  his 
friend. 

"You're  going  to  make  him  think  she  must 
go  away ;  going  to  make  her  think  he  must  go 
away;  going  to  find  out  whether  theirs  is  the 
sort  of  love  that  endureth  all  things — or  the 
usual  sort.  It's  a  damned  daring  piece  of 
business,  but" — his  hand  went  out — "it's  worth 
it.  She'll  begin  to  pack  as  soon  as  you  tell  her. 
But  he—" 

"  If  he  hesitates —  No,  I  won't  say  hesitates. 
He  wants  to  make  money  that  life  may  be  smooth 
and  beautiful  for  her,  and  to  give  up  this  oppor- 
tunity for  which  he  has  long  been  making  ready 
will  be  difficult.  He  has  learned  much  of  late. 
I  want  him  to  learn  more.  If  he  is  not  willing 
to  put  her  first  in  life,  thinks  it  wiser  to  wait 
until  her  return,  he  is  not  worthy  of  her.  I 
shall  tell  him  before  I  tell  her."  The  Doctor 
got  up.  "Usually  I  am  not  afraid,  not  uncer- 
tain"— the  gentle  voice  quivered — "but  the 
future  of  others — it  is  a  serious  matter  to  meddle 
with  it.  For  the  test  I  have  no  right  to  make, 
perhaps  —  I  may  be  taking  an  unfair  advan- 
tage. But  they  must  know,  McKenzie,  the 
many-sidedness  of  love!" 

The  moon  went  under  a  cloud,  and  overhead 
287 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

the  wind  in  the  trees  made  soft  whisperings,  and 
about  them  fireflies  darted  in  the  darkness. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  as  men 
look  who  have  long  been  journeying,  and  then 
Mr.  McKenzie  drew  closer,  and,  arm  in  arm,  they 
went  slowly  across  the  lawn  and  into  the  study, 
and  inside  they  closed  the  door. 


XXIX 

THE    MESSAGE 

A^  his  window,  hands  in  his  pockets,  Col- 
burn  looked  first  at  the  sky  and  then  the 
mountain-peaks  in  the  distance;  at  the  valley 
below,  and  the  fields  which  sloped  in  zigzag 
fashion  down  the  hill-sides  near  by,  and  as  he 
looked  his  eyes  narrowed. 

He  had  been  back  a  week — the  longest  week  of 
his  life.  If  Taska  had  not  come  yesterday  he 
would  have  gone  after  her.  To  see  for  him- 
self if  there  were  outward  indications  of  the 
rather  unsatisfactory  condition  in  which  the 
Doctor  reported  her  as  being  in  when  she  left 
for  a  visit  to  her  sister's  camp  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  possessed  him  unreasonably;  and  the 
old  impatience  at  restraint,  the  old  impulse  to 
brush  away  whatever  interfered  with  purpose 
or  desire,  required  control  of  which  he  was 
hardly  capable,  and  for  days  he  had  been  on  a 
tension  which  made  sleep  impossible  at  night. 

If  she  had  not  been  as  well,  why  had  the 
289 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

Doctor  let  her  go  away?  He  turned  from  the 
window  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room.  His  question  was  silly.  Taska  wanted 
to  go,  felt  she  ought  to  go.  Her  sister  had  some 
rights.  The  change  might  be  helpful,  and  the 
Doctor  was  not  to  blame.  Still,  he  ought  to  have 
known  before  she  left  that  she  was  not  quite  so 
well.  Why  hadn't  the  Doctor  told  him?  To 
save  him  worry  or  anxiety  was  meant  for  kind- 
ness, perhaps,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  be  saved 
anything  concerning  her.  She  was  his,  and  it 
was  his  right  to  know  every  shade  of  her  condition. 

Certainly  he  should  become  accustomed  to 
being  knocked  in  the  face,  accustomed  to  being 
held  up  when  the  road  ahead  seemed  straight 
and  clear.  But  did  a  man  ever  get  used  to  the 
overthrow  of  plans,  to  the  sudden  facing  of  a 
high,  hard  wall?  He  had  come  back  from  a 
visit  divided  between  his  home  and  New  York 
a  bit  light  in  the  head,  perhaps,  from  the  taste 
of  returning  power,  from  the  more  than  satis- 
factory arrangements  made  for  future  work. 
Before  him  were  big  things  to  be  done,  and 
with  keen  eagerness  he  wanted  to  begin  on 
them.  This  morning  the  Doctor  had  called 
him  in  his  office  and  told  him  Taska  must  spend 
a  winter  in  Arizona. 

The  blood  had  surged  to  his  temples,  purpled 
290 


THE    MESSAGE 

them  in  the  sharp  and  sudden  fear  that  filled 
his  heart,  but  there  was  no  serious  danger,  he 
was  told.  Her  resistance  must  be  built  up  for 
future  safety  and  assurance,  however,  and  to 
so  build  it  she  must  go  to  a  climate  that  could 
do  for  her  what  the  mountain-top  could  not. 
It  would  be  unwise  for  her  to  spend  the  winter 
at  Piping  Forest,  nor  must  she  go  back  to  the 
city  and  take  up  her  work  again,  nor  to  her  sis- 
ter's, where  society  was  unescapable. 

"When  must  she  go?" 

He  asked  the  question  with  his  back  to  the 
Doctor  and  face  at  the  open  window.  Out- 
doors the  sun  had  darkened,  and  the  birds  had 
stopped  their  singing,  and  his  throat  seemed 
closing.  "When  must  she  go?" 

"The  middle  of  October  will  be  soon  enough, 
I  imagine." 

For  some  minutes  Colburn  stared  out  of  the 
window,  and  the  silence  grew  long  and  oppres- 
sive. With  yearning  eyes  the  Doctor,  in  his 
chair  near  the  book-covered  table,  watched  the 
tense  figure  of  the  man  he  had  learned  to  love, 
and  his  heart  beat  as  beats  the  heart  of  youth, 
but  he  said  no  word.  All  men  must  go  down 
into  the  valley  before  the  hilltops  can  be 
reached,  and  all  men  must  tread  alone  the  wine- 
press that  is  theirs. 

291 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

Presently  Colburn  turned.  ' '  It  will  take  me  a 
week  to  arrange  matters,"  he  said.  "At  the 
end  of  it  we  can  be  married  and  leave  at  once 
if  you  think  best." 

The  Doctor's  arm  slipped,  and  a  book  was 
knocked  from  the  table,  and  in  his  chair  he 
leaned  back  as  if  something  had  snapped.  It 
had  been  greater  than  he  thought — the  tension 
of  his  test,  and  his  fear  had  been  unjust !  For 
a  moment  he  said  nothing.  On  his  lips  words 
died,  for  his  lips  were  trembling.  He  was  a 
foolish  old  man — a  foolish  old  man — but  in  his 
heart  was  music  strangely  sweet. 

"Sit  down,  my  son."  He  wiped  his  lips,  and 
drew  a  chair  close  to  him.  "There  are  several 
things  we  must  talk  about." 

When,  later,  he  left  him,  Colburn  did  not  go 
into  the  house.  Not  yet  could  he  trust  himself 
to  see  Taska.  For  hours  he  walked  the  moun- 
tain paths  or  sat  in  the  pine  woods  on  a  fallen 
tree-trunk  and  tried  to  see  clearly  that  he  might 
act  wisely,  but  for  some  time  there  was  only  hot 
rebellion  that  this  added  anxiety  and  disap- 
pointment should  have  come.  The  gripping 
fear  that  first  had  frozen  his  heart  had  died 
away  in  the  Doctor's  assurance  that  Taska's 
condition  was  not  serious,  and  that  a  stay  in 
Arizona  was  advisable  as  a  precautionary  rather 
292 


THE    MESSAGE 

than  a  curative  measure.  And  as  his  fear  less- 
ened there  had  been  for  a  moment  swift 
thought  that  his  business  interests  should  not 
suffer  because  of  this  precaution  on  the  Doctor's 
part;  that  it  would  be  wiser  perhaps  to  go  on 
with  his  work  and  provide  for  her  the  means  by 
which  all  that  she  might  need  later  could  be 
supplied.  But  at  the  thought  had  come  an- 
other. He  saw  her  alone  in  a  far-off  land,  and 
decision  was  made  quickly. 

The  Doctor  was  right,  however,  in  saying 
Taska  would  not  marry  him  did  she  think  it 
was  on  her  account  the  Western  climate  must 
be  tried.  She  was  singularly  stubborn  and  un- 
reasonable in  the  position  taken,  and  because  of 
it  he  had  no  scruples  in  marrying  her  under  a 
wrong  conception  on  her  part  concerning  him. 
It  would  not  be  sympathy  or  pity  that  would 
make  her  consent  to  be  his  wife.  It  would  be 
love's  surrender;  and  love  confessed  had  made 
her  his.  He  would  tell  her,  as  the  Doctor  said, 
that  he  must  go  to  Arizona. 

To  put  behind  him  the  opportunities  ahead, 
to  resign  the  position  just  accepted — a  position 
whose  duties  were  not  to  be  assumed  until 
November — had  meant  a  sharp  and  bitter 
struggle.  Against  him  were  the  forces  of  the 
past  which  had  made  personal  success  the  pri- 
20  293 


THE    HOUSE   OF    HAPPINESS 

mary  motive  of  action,  and  with  them  were  the 
insidious  .questionings  of  wily  prudence,  and 
alone  the  new  vision  had  to  pierce  the  darkness. 
Separation  might  have  been  accepted  tem- 
porarily had  it  been  advisable  and  inevitable, 
but  under  present  conditions  it  could  not  be 
accepted.  Of  herself  she  took  too  little  care. 
He  must  be  with  her.  With  any  one  else  there 
could  be  neither  peace  nor  content  concerning 
her. 

Coming  back  to  the  window,  he  again  looked 
out  of  it.  In  the  eastern  sky  masses  of  soft 
clouds,  white  and  gray,  wrapped  and  wound 
themselves  into  queer  and  curious  shapes,  and 
tumbled  out  of  the  blue  into  curling  heaps  of 
foam  and  spray;  and  in  the  west  the  sun  sank 
slowly,  a  flaming  ball  of  golden  red.  Footsteps 
to  the  right  of  his  window  made  him  look  out. 
Down  the  box-bordered  path  Taska  was  walking 
slowly,  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  on  the 
perfect  skin,  in  which  to-day  was  no  hint  of 
color,  the  long  lashes  made  a  dark  half-circle. 
She  wore  a  white  dress  open  at  the  throat,  and 
around  her  shoulders  was  a  soft,  thin  scarf  of 
blue,  and  as  the  sun  sank  her  hair  caught  its 
last  gleaming  and  gave  back  glints  of  shining 
light.  She  was  thinking  deeply,  was  indeed  lost 
in  thought. 

294 


THE    MESSAGE 

At  sight  of  her  his  face  whitened,  and  for  a 
moment  he  hesitated ;  then  he  turned  and,  going 
out  of  the  room,  joined  her  as  she  reached  the 
gate,  out  of  which  they  passed  to  the  little  by- 
path that  led  to  the  ridge  from  which  could 
best  be  gained  the  view  she  loved  so  well. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  in  her  face  crept 
color.  "I'm  glad  you  came,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  but  I  didn't. 
I  wanted  you."  She  looked  up.  "Do  you 
really  believe  this  past  month  had  just  thirty- 
one  days  in  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  For  a  moment  surging 
love  and  pity  and  fear  and  rebellion  silenced 
him,  and  words  would  not  come.  She  was  so 
fine  and  fair,  and  suddenly  he  felt  helpless  to 
shield  and  protect  her.  The  hand  in  his  was 
crushed  with  something  of  fierceness;  then  he 
dropped  it  and  took  her  in  his  arms  and  lifted 
her  face  and  kissed  it. 

"Taska!"  he  said.     "Taska!" 

She  did  not  resist  his  kisses.  Hitherto  she 
had  refused  to  let  him  claim  her  as  his  own,  but 
no  longer  she  refused.  Presently  she  drew 
away. 

"  You  have  not  answered  me,"  she  said,  and 
made  effort  to  hide  with  smiling  the  quivering 
of  her  lips.  "Florine  was  indignant.  She  was 
295 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

really  hurt,  but  I  wanted  to  come  back  the  day 
after  I  went  away.  What's  the  use  of  living  if 
you  can't  be  with — with  those  you  love  best?" 

"No  use." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  and  again  they  be- 
gan their  walk,  and  in  silence  reached  the  top 
of  the  ridge,  and  under  its  spreading  oak  tree 
sat  down  and  looked  across  the  valley  to  the 
encircling  hills,  and  then  he  turned  to  her  and 
took  her  hands  in  his. 

"Has  he  told  you,  Taska?" 

She  nodded.  "Pepper-pot  is  right  in  a  good 
many  things  he  says."  Her  breath  came  un- 
steadily. "One  of  them  is  that  everybody  car- 
ries something  to  extremes.  My  Doctor-man 
carries  caution."  Her  fingers  tightened  on  his, 
and  in  her  eyes  was  love  upleaping  and  pro- 
tecting care.  He  tells  me  it  is  only  that  you 
may  run  no  risk  of  a  set-back,  only  that  you  be 
made  absolutely  well  again  that  you  must  go  to 
Arizona  for  the  better  climate  and  the  care 
Dr.  Dunroe  can  give  you."  In  her  voice  was 
brave  effort  to  fight  down  the  fear  in  her  heart, 
the  fear  he  must  not  feel.  "I  know  you  under- 
stand, know  you  will  not  let  it  depress  you, 
but — "  Her  voice  broke.  "If  only  it  had 
been  I  that  had  to  go!  It  wouldn't  have  mat- 
tered about  me,  but  you —  To  put  aside  your 
296 


THE   MESSAGE 

work  which  means  so  much,  to  give  it  up  and 
go  away —  If  only  I  could  go  and  let  you  stay !" 

"That's  the  only  lucky  part  about  it — that  it 
is  I  and  not  you  who  must  go!"  His  voice  was 
unsteadily  cheerful,  and  in  his  heart  was  quick, 
tumultuous  leaping.  "The  work  can  wait.  I 
like  to  work,  but  there  is  always  plenty  to  be 
done,  and  when  I  come  back  I'll  find  another 
job,  I  imagine.  It  isn't  that,  Taska."  Into  his 
face  crept  shadow.  "The  part  I  cannot  trust 
myself  to  talk  about  is  leaving — you — " 

Her  head  went  up.  "Leaving  me?"  She 
turned  her  face  toward  him.  "Do  you  suppose 
I  am  going  to  let  you  go  out  there  alone?" 

By  strong  effort  his  eyes  were  turned  from 
her,  and  her  hands  dropped. 

"I  cannot  ask  you  to  marry  me.  My  future 
is  uncertain.  I  have  no  right — ' 

"Haven't  you?"  Hands  outstretched,  she 
laughed  with  quivering  lightness.  "Then  I 
shall  marry  you  without  being  asked.  I  could 
not  stand  the  year  of  separation.  I  am  going 
with  you.  Surely — oh,  surely  you  would  not 
make  me  stay  away!" 

Long  they  sat  and  talked.     Overhead  the 
wind  in  the  trees  rustled  rhythmically,  and  a 
wood-thrush  called  to  its  mate,  and  over  the 
297 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

mountains  the  mist  rose  soft  and   shadowy. 
Presently  Taska  looked  up. 

"A  long,  long  time  ago,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl" — she  brushed  the  wind-blown  hair  from 
her  eyes — "I  read  a  story  of  a  woman  who 
had  had  a  great  sorrow.  For  a  while  it  stunned 
and  paralyzed  and  embittered  her;  then  she 
began  to  watch  life,  watch  people,  and  to  won- 
der why  they  were  happy  or  unhappy,  and  for 
years  she  could  find  no  answer.  And  then  one 
night  she  had  a  dream,  and  she  was  told  that  she 
must  go  about  the  world  and  give  a  message  to 
all  men  and  women.  And  the  message  was 
that  each  soul  must  build  the  house  in  which  is 
happiness,  and  it  is  made  of  things  that  are 
not  bought  and  sold.  For  a  long  while  I  could 
not  understand.  We  needed  money  so  dread- 
fully, and  I  loved  and  wanted  the  beautiful 
things  that  money  buys.  I  love  them  now. 
But  later,  when  I,  too,  began  to  know  life,  I 
knew  her  message  was  true."  She  looked  up. 
"It  is  the  only  house  one  can  take  from  place 
to  place  and  live  in  anywhere.  It  is  going  to 
be  in  Arizona — going  to  be — 

"Wherever  we  are  wise  enough  to  build  it!" 
In  the  clear  eyes  Colburn  smiled  gravely.  "I 
have  much  to  learn,  Taska,  and  you  must  help 
me  build." 

298 


THE    MESSAGE 

A  long,  low  whistle,  soft  and  sweet,  broke  the 
silence,  and,  looking  up,  they  saw  Cricket. 

"You  must  tell  him."  On  her  feet  Taska 
turned  to  Colburn.  "He  will  be  so  glad  to 
know  and  will  see  the  happy  side.  And  we,  too, 
are  going  to  see — the  happy  side!" 


XXX 

THE    WEDDING   GIFT 

CRICKET  pushed  the  books  and  magazines 
on  the  table  out  of  the  way,  drew  the  ink- 
stand nearer  to  him,  put  his  pen  in  it  and  held 
it  suspended  in  his  fingers  as  he  looked  down  at 
the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  was  marked  in  old 
English  letters  the  name  of  his  present  abiding- 
place,  and  presently  he  nodded  to  it. 

"I'm  not  a-going  to  do  it!  You  ain't  equal  to 
anything  like  that,  Josephus  Hammill,  called 
Cricket,  neither  is  Mis'  Lemmon,  and  it  isn't 
any  use  wasting  good  stuff  just  because  it's 
handy,  and  your  writing  wouldn't  match  it. 
You  just  get  back  to  the  kind  you're  used  to!" 

Getting  up,  he  hesitated,  then  one  by  one 
the  things  on  the  table  were  taken  off  and  laid 
on  chairs  or  on  the  floor;  the  pretty  cover  hung 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  pen  and  ink  put 
back,  and  in  place  of  the  awe-inspiring  sta- 
tionery a  pad  of  cheap  paper  was  taken  from  a 
bureau  drawer  and  laid  on  the  table. 
300 


-THE   WEDDING   GIFT 

"I  reckon  this  room  was  meant  for  a  lady." 
The  blue  eyes  wandered  in  first  one  direction 
and  then  another.  "That  little  desk  over  there 
certainly  wasn't  made  for  a  fist  like  mine.  My 
elbow  on  it  don't  know  what  to  do  with  itself, 
and  I  can't  write  lessen  I  got  plenty  of  room  to 
swing  a  pen  in.  Maybe  a  battle-axe  ain't  so 
mighty,  but  I'd  rather  have  one  in  my  hand 
any  time  than  a  pen.  I'm  a  knock-kneed 
nothing  when  it  comes  to  writing.  Just  plain 
every-day  things  is  the  onliest  ones  I  can  put 
down,  and  frills  and  flourishes  get  stuck  at  the 
start.  But  I  got  to  write  her.  I  promised." 

Again  sitting  down,  Cricket  nibbled  the  end  of 
his  pen,  pulled  the  pad  of  paper  close  to  him, 
tore  off  a  sheet  or  two,  wiped  his  forehead  with 
a  new  handkerchief  drawn  from  the  pocket  of 
his  new  suit,  looked  down  at  his  new  shoes, 
ran  his  fingers  around  the  inside  of  his  collar, 
and  straightened  his  cravat,  and  then,  with  a 
violent  plunge  of  the  pen  in  the  ink-bottle, 
began  to  write  in  a  large,  round  hand. 

*  DEAR  MRS.  LEMMON, — We  are  here.  Been  here 
a  week.  Your  postal  card  saying  you  were  afraid 
maybe  Miss  Taska  wasn't  getting  on  so  well  as  you 
hadn't  heard  from  her  lately  came  just  before  we 
left,  and  this  is  to  say  she  couldn't  be  getting  on 
weller  this  side  of  heaven.  And  she  ain't  hankering 
301 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

after  a  somewhere  heaven,  being  in  the  one  what's 
made  of  things  what  makes  it,  and  liking  it  very 
much. 

They  were  married  on  the  2  6th  of  October,  just 
one  year  to  the  day  when  I  was  a-sitting  on  the  fence 
and  he  come  up  and  set  by  me.  They  didn't  know 
each  other  was  living  that  day,  but  they  did  that 
night,  and  that's  why  they  got  married  on  the  26th. 

It  was  an  awful  beautiful  marriage.  It  was  in  the 
morning,  and  the  sun  just  tried  itself,  and  there 
wasn't  a  thing  that  wasn't  a-shining.  Looked  like 
every  leaf  on  every  tree  was  a  different  color,  and  the 
birds  knew.  I  could  tell  by  the  way  they  sang. 
You  ought  to  seen  the  table.  It  groaned  like  tables 
used  to  do  before  the  war,  Bradford  said.  I  never  saw 
so  many  good  things  to  eat  in  my  life,  and,  thinking 
I  mightn't  ever  see  'em  again,  I  ate  some  of  all.  I 
was  sick  some,  but  I  wasn't  sorry  I  ate.  I  had  a 
grand  time  doing  it.  There  weren't  many  people. 
Miss  Taska's  sister  and  her  husband  came,  and  her 
sister  cried  all  the  time  the  minister  was  a-saying 
the  words,  and  Mr.  Pepper-pot  blinked  so  bad  I 
thought  his  eyes  would  pop  out.  Her  aunt  came, 
too,  and  her  best  friend,  and  some  of  Mr.  Colburn's 
friends,  or  relations — I  don't  know  which.  She  had 
on  a  white  dress  and  some  pearls  around  her  neck. 
He  gave  'em  to  her,  Mr.  Colburn  did,  and,  Lord, 
she  was  lovely!  When  the  Doctor  put  her  hand  in 
Mr.  Colburn's  I'd  'a'  run  if  I  could.  I  ain't  ever 
seen  a  face  what  looked  like  his  when  he  did  it,  and 
her  sister's  crying  didn't  twist  you  up  like  his  smile 
did.  Somehow  I  can't  get  'em  out  of  my  mind, 
302 


THE    WEDDING   GIFT 

them  two,  Mr.  Pepper-pot  and  the  Doctor.  They 
went  down  to  the  station  to  see  us  off,  and  the  last 
thing  I  saw  they  were  standing  together  and  they 
were  arm  in  arm. 

I  didn't  know  whether  I  could  go  with  them,  as  I 
had  to  get  educated,  but  as  soon  as  they  told  me  they 
were  coming  up  here,  unbeknownst  to  them  I 
wrote  to  the  Doctor  I'd  heard  them  mention  and 
asked  him  about  schools,  and  he  wrote  me  there 
was  a  good  one  lessen  than  seven  miles  from  this 
place,  and  I  asked  Mr.  Colburn  if  I  couldn't  go  to  it 
instead  of  the  one  he  was  thinking  about,  and  he  said 
I  could.  He's  a  corker,  that  man  is.  He  knows 
how  a  fellow  feels,  and  he  knows  you  can't  study 
good  if  anything  is  on  your  mind,  and  they'd  have 
been  on  mine  every  minute  if  I  couldn't  have  seen 
for  myself  how  they  were  getting  on. 

They  are  living  in  a  little  house  what's  got  vines 
on  it,  and  it's  warm  in  the  daytime,  but  at  night 
they  have  fire,  and  I'm  to  come  over  every  Saturday 
morning  from  school  and  stay  till  Monday.  If  I 
was  to  stick  a  whole  paper  of  pins  in  me,  one  by  one, 
I  wouldn't  be  sure  this  was  me,  Josephus  Hammill, 
called  Cricket,  and  most  every  night  I  wonder  how  it 
happened. 

And  I  thank  you  for  taking  care  of  me  till  they 
found  me,  and  I  hope  I  won't  ever  forget,  and  that 
remembering  won't  always  be  words.  My  letters 
will  come  every  month  same  as  they  been  doing, 
and  please,  'm,  will  you  spend  the  dollar  what  I'm 
putting  in  this  for  flowers  for  Teenie.  The  i2th 
is  her  birthday,  and  I'd  like  pink  flowers,  please,  'm. 

303 


THE    HOUSE    OF    HAPPINESS 

She  loved  pink.  I  hope  the  grass  is  growing  well  on 
it.  If  it  ain't,  won't  you  ask  Bob  Hatcher  to  look 
after  it  for  me,  and  tell  him  if  he  will  I'll  send  him 
something  in  my  next  letter.  Good-by. 

Respectfully,  CRICKET. 

P.  S.  I've  had  my  new  string  more'n  a  month, 
and  it  hasn't  got  but  two  knots  in  it.  Miss  Taska 
says  everybody  will  come  on  if  they'll  stick  on.  C. 

Down  in  the  little  sitting-room,  by  the 
shaded  lamp  on  the  table  drawn  close  to  the  fire- 
place from  whose  logs  leaped  flames  of  red  and 
gold  and  purplish  pink,  Colburn  was  reading. 
Presently  his  paper  fell  to  the  floor,  and  with 
eyes  that  saw  not  he  looked  into  the  fire.  The 
paper  was  from  his  home  city,  and  in  it  he  had 
just  read  an  account  of  the  marriage  of  Isa- 
bel McLean  and  Merri weather  Ralstone.  The 
Coles  worth  house  was  Isabel's  at  last. 

His  refusal  to  let  his  lawyer  give  publicity 
to  Ralstone's  rascality  was  due  to  no  sympathy 
or  consideration  for  Ralstone.  A  hypocrite  and 
thief  deserved  no  sentimental  mercy,  but  for 
Isabel's  sake  he  had  been  silent.  Something 
was  due  Isabel.  He  looked  around  the  little 
room  with  its  simple  furnishings,  its  books  and 
flowers  and  firelight.  Certainly  it  was  a  con- 
trast to  the  rooms  awaiting  Isabel. 

The  door  opened,  and  Taska  came  inside, 
304 


THE   WEDDING   GIFT 

but  as  Colburn  got  up  and  placed  a  chair  for 
her  she  shook  her  head. 

"The  moon  is  magnificent  to-night.  I  want 
to  walk.  Tell  Cricket  we  are  going  out."  In 
her  hands  was  a  small  package.  "This  is  the 
Doctor-man's  wedding  gift,"  she  said — "his 
Arizona  present.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  to- 
day in  which  he  told  me  to  get  this  from  Dr. 
Dunroe.  He  had  sent  it  ahead  in  his  care. 
I  wonder  what  it  is ?  What  do  you  think?" 

Colburn  laughed.  "That's  a  woman,  all 
right.  A  small  flat  something  may  be  anything 
that  is  small  and  flat."  Out  of  her  hands  he 
took  the  package,  then  hesitated,  and  after  a 
half -moment  laid  it  on  the  table.  "If  we're 
going  to  walk  we'd  better  go  at  once.  Later  it 
gets  rather  cool.  When  we  come  back  we'll  open 
it.  The  Doctor  has  his  own  way  of  doing  things. 
Perhaps  this  is  a  poem  he  wants  us  to  read — " 

"Dear  Doctor-man!"  Taska  raised  her  eyes 
to  her  husband's.  They  were  wet  and  shining. 
"Were  he  with  us  I  would  ask  for  no  one  else." 
Her  hand  went  out  to  his. 

Stooping,  he  kissed  her,  smiled  in  her  eyes. 
"I  wish  he  could  be  with  us,  but  with  you — 
I  ask  for  no  one  else!" 


THE   END 


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